First Steps
by Willa Dedalus
Summary: Fill in the Blank Story from Matthew Crawley's point of view. Each chapter of this story will be from a month during the missing time frame between episode 2.08 and the Christmas Special. May 1919 - January 1920.
1. May

Authors Note – This is the first in a collection of stories that follow Matthew from May 1919 through the Christmas Special episode ending in 1920. I really wanted to explore how he got from his April angst and anger with Mary at Lavinia's graveside to his CS proposal. That eight month gap has always intrigued me and I felt it was a void I wanted to try and explore and explain. There will be a total of nine stories – eight for the month's in-between (May-December) and an epilogue as well.

The story is dedicated to my dear friend R. Grace, who helped me every step of the way, hence how this collection of stories - "First Steps" came to be. So, Thank you R. Grace! It was quite an emotional journey and not just for Matthew! So – I humbly offer the first chapter in Matthew's journey, a first step back towards Mary – and so we start with a little moment plucked from May 1919.

**First Steps – May**

The ornamental knocker on the front door of Crawley House was rapped twice in quick succession, followed by a knock on the front door.

Matthew wanted to be alone. He did not want anybody to enter Crawley House, nor did he have any wish to leave. The insistent knock, however, forced him to contemplate the effort it would take to leave the sitting room and retire to his bedroom where he would not be disturbed.

But he just couldn't find the energy; he couldn't be bothered. He didn't wish to see anyone; neither did he wish to move. So he simply crossed his legs and continued to read.

There was another knock. He wondered in frustration why Moseley was not answering the door. Then he remembered it was Sunday - Mosley's day off.

Feeling around the arm of his chair, Matthew reached for his stick, and ejected his stiff body from the chair. He could feel his temper begin to boil at the interruption. If he was going to have to answer the door, he needed at least some idea of who he was going to have to face.

He approached the partially-open window, pulled the curtain aside, and very discreetly peered out to see his cousin, Robert, rapping on the door. Robert's hand rose as if to knock again, and Matthew let the curtain fall back into place. The older man's undeservedly warm words still echoed in his head.

"_Just tell me what you want me to do, and I'll do it_."

If only it were that simple. If only Robert _could _offer him a solution. But Robert was not H.G. Wells, and he could not build him a time machine. Matthew knew he would never measure up to the Earl, and it burned his tortured soul to think of how tender his cousin had been to him since... He couldn't even think her name let alone say it.

"Since _Lavinia's_ death," he finally forced his mind to form the hateful words. He couldn't think of anything but her, yet he dared not dwell on her name.

Matthew knew he was a lost cause. He felt as though Harry Houdini's shackles were on him every minute of the day, and he could not escape. It would be best for everyone if he was simply left alone, in isolation, at Crawley House.

A moment later, Matthew heard his Mother approach and greet Robert at the front door. Their cheerful greeting soon turned into more somber whispering.

_"No doubt, about me,"_ he thought bitterly.

Robert extended an offer for them both to join him for church, which Isobel declined, saying she had pledged her help in the local Victory garden, and Matthew wanted solitude.

"How is Matthew?" Robert asked his pitying words completely clear to Matthew's ears.

He pulled the curtain open again to watch them as they spoke about him. He felt numb. He should feel something about the discussion they were about to have, since he was the primary topic, but he didn't. Annoyance? Apathy? Melancholy? No, he was stagnant and felt nothing. His mother's kind eyes and gentle affection were all he could bear, and Robert, it seemed, was determined to jump on the bandwagon of unwanted sympathy.

Matthew knew he could accept his Mother's regard because, despite the disappointment she would surely feel were she to learn what a cad her son truly was, she would still find the grace to overcome it in time. She was that way about all people, and he knew she would eventually recover. But Robert...

No. There was no escape, no return. If Robert knew, there would be nothing left to cling to. His friend and mentor would know the man he was forced to leave everything to as his heir was an utter disgrace.

To Matthew's surprise, his mother only shook her head in response to Robert's question. She didn't say a word, but her sad eyes and fading smile said enough. Then she truly surprised him by changing the topic of their conversation, asking,

"Has Mary set a date for her wedding yet? I hope she won't feel she has to postpone for long."

A sudden gust of wind caused the shutters to clatter against the outside wall, and Matthew missed the first part of Robert's response. What he was able to hear made him feel hollow, invisible and empty.

"Mary did cry when she last mentioned her wedding. It caused a bit of a stir really, so unlike her to lose her composure at the dinner table."

"Well, yes. Lavinia was her friend too," he heard his mother respond.

Matthew leaned into the wall until his head knocked against it. He had once asked Mary to look out for his mother and for Lavinia, expecting that he would be the first to be removed from the world. If a life was to be cut short, it should have been his own, yet here he was. He had brought Lavinia into his world, and she had been destroyed by his thoughtless actions. Mary had even looked after her better than he had ever done. He knew that much because Lavinia had thought so highly of her. Mary was a better person than he was. He remembered Lavinia saying to him once,

_"I wish Mary was my sister. I've never had a sister, after all, and she has all the right qualities for it. Don't you think?"_

Matthew suddenly saw, in his mind's eye, the girl he had first met in London, with her timid little laugh and her always-affectionate eyes on him. He had entered the room at the drinks party the Officer's club had sponsored, and noticed her right away. She was sitting at a table near the orchestra, swatting at a fly as it buzzed around her, yet somehow appearing, to him, like a beauty from the cinema - a Hollywood vixen with her gorgeous ginger hair and delicate features. He had watched her for only a moment before deciding that he wanted to dance with her.

As he introduced himself, he had felt a bewildering feeling of freedom, and then hope had burst forth inside his heart. She had giggled charmingly when he asked her if she wanted to dance. Impatient, he had already started pulling her into his arms when she thanked him and shyly accepted.

Lavinia was not a very good dancer. She stepped out of turn several times, but he was happy to take the lead, to be in control with a beautiful woman in his arms, so he didn't mind. Afterwards, they had talked for hours. She nonchalantly chatted with him, discussing all her favorite places in the city that had always been her home. When they had exhausted all talk of London, Matthew had taken his turn and told her about his childhood in Manchester. She said she had been there once. As she fondly recalled feeding ducks at a beautiful reservoir there, a sensation akin to the striking of a match shot through Matthew's body, illuminating the moment.

He no longer felt vulnerable when speaking about his hometown. He felt proud. He had grown up near Heaton Park, which boasted the largest reservoir, making it a favored spot for tourists. They jokingly speculated over the possibility that their paths had crossed before, imaging the scenario over a quiet laugh. Matthew remembered thinking that, someday, he would like to go back to Heaton Park with her on his arm. After witnessing so much heartache, worry, and destruction in France, having this woman then before him - talking and laughing with him, accepting him - he had felt that his future was as golden as her beautiful hair.

When they were finally forced to part, she thanked him again for the dance.

"You saved me," she said, her gentle face softening into an adorably shy expression as she clarified, "from that fly!"

Matthew recalled the blissful feeling of that laugh above all the laughs they had shared in their short time together. It had been so innocent. He had escaped everything else, all the other nagging worries and doubts of his life, and been free of constraint for those few hours.

Before departing, she had introduced him to her father, who had been discreetly watching them from across the room. Matthew had liked Reginald Swire almost instantly, and they had immediately arranged a luncheon to discuss legal matters together when it was discovered that they shared an occupation. To his delight, Lavinia was also invited to join them.

For the first time, perhaps in his adult life, Matthew felt as though the effortless existence he had always desired was within his reach. All he had ever wanted was to love a woman the same way his father had loved his mother. It had always been that simple, until he was tripped up by his feelings for Cousin Mary. Matthew never would have guessed this kind of easy relationship would bloom on such short acquaintance, but he had soon felt that Lavinia and her father had become a surrogate family to him.

After their luncheon, he had known that someday he would propose to Lavinia. He had admitted as much to her father, who had shaken his hand and clapped him on the back. They had formed an almost instant camaraderie.

Mr. Swire didn't treat him like a son, but like a business partner. Matthew supposed that was part of the reason he found their relationship a bit of a relief. He had already labored far too long under the expectations of being a long-lost son to Robert. He didn't need another father figure. Matthew had always wanted to govern his own life - to be independent. Even his own father had seen that when he had first expressed his desire to study the law rather than medicine. His relationship with Robert had always been different. Matthew was petrified of disappointing him, more so than any other man of his acquaintance. After he had proved such a harassing lark to Robert's daughter and completely sullied their friendship, he had found it regrettably difficult to continue much correspondence with the Earl.

Returning to the present, Matthew found he had completely lost track of his mother and Robert's conversation. He had been in his own little world - a world made entirely of bricks that had collapsed around him due to his lack of care for their construction. He was a poor stone mason when it came to life-altering decisions.

"What else is going on in the village?" Isobel asked Robert cheerfully.

"Well, I am no great advocate of it, nor do I quite understand its mass appeal, but there is a traveling circus to appear next week."

"Oh, good heavens! That's wonderful!" Isobel exclaimed. "Matthew loved the circus as a boy!" she continued. "Oh, it might be just the thing to get some fresh air into his lungs and cheer him up. He is spending far too much time inside nursing his own sadness." For a moment she paused before continuing, her tone soft and poignant. "Just like when his father died. My poor boy takes life's jolts rather hard," she concluded.

"Indeed," Robert said. "I thought as much, although he never has spoken to me about it."

"Me either," Isobel responded sympathetically, "but I'm his mother, and I know it to be true."

"Well, I could get us all tickets to the circus, if you think that would help him. I will do anything you suggest that might lift his spirits. _Anything at all_," Robert said his tone lugubrious.

"That's extremely kind," Isobel said warmly, then added, "I'll ask him, thank you."

Robert glanced down at his watch.

"Well, I can no longer detain myself from my obligation. I must join Cora and the girls at church." He tipped his hat to Isobel. "I hope we will see both of you soon at the Abbey for dinner. Tell Matthew I particularly miss his company."

Robert's tone stabbed violently at Matthew's heart, breaking parts of him he didn't know could still feel. He was hurting people he cared about, it seemed, without even trying. It was not how he wanted to be. It was not how he was raised to be, either. Matthew couldn't help but feel a fresh current of disappointment rush through him. It made his head ache and his stomach churn. He was simply morally bankrupt, and there was nothing to be done about it. He would just have to accept that he was like a pencil without an eraser; there was nothing he could alter or change about the past.

"Perhaps with your medical knowledge," Robert turned back after taking a few steps away from the house, "you could try to convince him it's detrimental to my health to drink brandy alone after dinner."

His earlier somber tone was now freckled with optimism and hope. Matthew watched from behind the curtain as his mother and his father figure shared a knowing smile. He was beginning to feel rather like the Wizard of Oz himself, hiding behind his self-made barrier. That made perfect sense, as he, too, was a liar and a phony.

"I will," Isobel answered promptly. "Thank you for the invitation and for checking on Matthew. My best wishes to Cora and the girls, too."

Several minutes later, Matthew was so lost in his own thoughts that he flinched when he felt a soft touch on his shoulder.

It was his mother.

"How much did you hear?" she asked him sternly. Her brisk, accusatory tone made him feel better than he had in days. It was ironically liberating. He could handle blame; he could handle scorn and her questions about his behavior. He was ready to face the firing squad.

"Enough," he said, shrugging off her hand and moving away from the window. His fist gripped his stick tightly as he moved, squeezing the cane is if it could absorb his tension.

His Mother completely surprised him with her next question. Her tone was entirely altered.

"Well then," she asked gently, "would you like to go to the circus?"

Her seemingly-inane question gave him more pause than, perhaps, it should have. What _would_ he like? Matthew knew his dependence on his Mother had always been rather odd, something he had been teased about as a child. He didn't know if he could continue this charade. He wasn't strong enough to fight back against her. Matthew closed his eyes and tried to take a deep breath, knowing she was scrutinizing him. What he had wanted was for everything to be simple, and he had failed to make it so.

Maybe he would fit right in under the circus big top. The ringmaster would make his stick disappear, if not his guilt, and he already knew he could relate to the tightrope walker.

Matthew didn't know how to react to his Mother's compassion. It left him stupefied. He didn't know what to say to anything anymore. When he opened his eyes and looked at his mother, he ached to tell her all his troubles, but he couldn't, he _wouldn't_, do anything to make her lose faith in him. He would have to bear it alone.

Matthew found himself unable to speak, despite his best efforts, as he continued to return his mother's expectant gaze. She must have understood, somehow. She always understood him. That was part of the problem now. He was hiding his secret from her, from the world. He always would be.

"Think about it, dearest," Isobel said, stepping towards him gracefully. "I am late for the Victory Garden planting, so I will see you later." She kissed him lightly on the cheek, and departed without another word.

"The circus - the greatest show on earth," Matthew muttered to himself.

He did not see how visiting the circus would fix anything, but at least it distracted him from other thoughts, even if the reprieve was only temporary. Choreographed acts of chaos happened every day in his own life. Clowns, acrobats, trained animals, trapeze acts, musicians, jugglers, unicyclists, and other stunt-oriented artists need not even try when he was around. He should pull his bicycle out and join the act.

Despite everything, the ache for such simple comfort did seem to stimulate some kind of yearning in him. He would think about it... perhaps.

Matthew suddenly felt fatigued and eagerly made his way back the few steps to his chair to sit down again. Taking the weight off his feet, however, did little to unburden his heart or his mind. He held his stick in his hands for a moment, simply staring at it, lost in thought. Frustrated with his inner musings, he tried to shake them off, and hooked his stick on the arm of his chair. He missed his mark, and the heavy piece of wood clattered noisily to the floor, the echo a reminder of his solitude, of being all alone with his thoughts, and, of course, his failure at everything he attempted. Biting his lip in exasperation, Matthew picked up his book and continued attempting to read, but it was no use. Not even Shakespeare could comfort him or disrupt his inner musings. He saw only the exuberant expression on Lavinia's face, the tears falling from her cerulean eyes, as she cried, _"yes, of course yes!"_

She hadn't even waited to let him finish his proposal before she spoke. There was no delay in her answer, only impatience and complete acceptance. She had made him the happiest man alive.

Overcome by a sudden burst of self-righteous anger, Matthew threw his book forcefully across the room. It landed, with a rustle of pages, spine down on the sofa. Another pointless act on his part, something else he loved destroyed.

The second time he proposed, Lavinia's reaction was the same. She had consistently been there for him. She loved first, and she loved last. Even as he held her hand as she slipped away, tired of fighting, he felt her love for him, so infinitely tender –and always focused on his happiness first. He remembered her weak touch, just as soothing as it had been the day they met... and then she was gone.

His felt his eyes shamefully brimming with long-repressed tears, and squeezed them shut. All the anger melted away, and only pain remained inside him. He turned his head and opened his eyes to find himself staring into a miniature framed portrait of his father's face. It was the final straw, and he wept. He had never gotten the chance to say goodbye to his father. His death had also been so sudden. Even after so many years, the pain of that missed moment was still so fresh. The worlds of his grief began to mix and collide, finally overwhelming him.

"I'm sorry," was all he could say, over and over, between wracking sobs.

He _was_ sorry. For his father. For Lavinia.

It was all he had left to offer, his tears an apology to those that he had lost. And so Matthew finally allowed himself to cry.


	2. June

Chapter Two of _First Steps_.

Actually this story was the genesis of the entire saga – having been already published (simply as "First Steps") – but for reimaged purposes – it is now chapter two. There are slight changes in Matthew from the previous chapter of him as depicted in May, he can now accept being out of Crawley House and enjoys (somewhat) being with Robert again. And the stick is gone! Horary! Although he is still in full torture mode, he will have a surprise encounter with someone at the end. This story is dedicated with profound appreciation to R. Grace.

Now without further ado….

** "First Steps" - June**

There are good ideas and there are bad ideas. Matthew was starting to believe this day, which had started firmly as the former, was now rapidly deteriorating into the later. He was terribly frustrated, and nobody understood. They all meant well. Of course, he knew that. He did. But being on display had its limits for his frayed nerves and, apparently, his newly healed back.

His mantra of the day had been "grin and bear it." Cousin Robert was brimming with enthusiasm for them to spend time together. They had barely seen each other since Matthew had returned to work in Ripon.

Robert had been excessively anxious, therefore, on this hot early-June morning to take him around to visit the tenant farms on the estate, the cottages, and damn near every mile of Yorkshire.

Matthew had enjoyed it at first. The air, although unseasonably warm, was fresh and clean, and it helped to clear his forever foggy head.

He hadn't been comfortable with human interaction of late. If he wasn't staring at notes in his office, he was holed up at Crawley House with only his thoughts, and occasionally his mother, for company. He had expressed a desire to return to work in Ripon only a fortnight after Lavinia's death. He had, after all, always planned to return to work once the effects of his paralysis started to albeit. But, with the wedding and, of course, the long honeymoon planned, his return to work eventually had been planed for further into the future. Harvell and Carter had made it clear; his position would always be available. But then things had taken a terrible turn, and he desperately needed his occupation to fill his time and his mind. His mother, as usual, had been his greatest supporter when the idea had been announced at the rare family dinner he attended at the Abbey.

Truth to be told, going to work had become an exhausting ritual. Waking up in the morning was becoming a challenge. Since he could hardly allow himself much sleep during the night, he soon found himself over-exerting his taxed constitution at work, hoping to inspire a greater need for rest the following night. So, Matthew's disposition was suffering and this cycle was not working for him. Walking for miles through uneven farm paths and endless lanes with holes that jolted his sore back was not improving his mood, his sanity, or his overall feelings of well being.

If it not for the heat, Robert might have questioned Matthew's slow pace even more. It only made him more frustrated with himself that, after finally shedding that vile cane, he now longed for it to return to his hand. His back ached more with every step. Phantom sensations, like the spores of a dandy lion just lightly brushing up against his tight muscles, tormented him.

Matthew had been a little transfixed by the beauty of the landscape of the Hendersons' farm, but that had been hours ago. He had seen the Drakes', the Collins', the Everetts', and the Garrisons' since then. He had met dozens of people - some hired hands, some family. It was all starting to turn his stomach, and not just because of the rocky roads that jolted his back. The sight of children at play squeezed at his heart, as did the adoring wives all the unknowingly-fortunate farmers seemed to possess.

Even in the village Robert bragged about him, patted his shoulder, and introduced him as _"my boy Matthew, my heir Matthew"…_ and commented about the cane he no longer needed, about his brave war deeds, and about his future.

But then the time would inevitably come that they would all offer their condolences for his late fiancée, and they would all share a prayer for the double tragedies of late - the war and the sickness that had affected everyone in someway. The first time it had happened, Matthew had been genuinely stunned, and the cathedral-like setting of a hilltop in summer had made the awkwardness of the moment with strangers who knew so much about him, while he was so ignorant about their lives, sting a little less.

As the day proceeded, he felt his ignorance did as well. The stabbing pain of humiliation added to the grating pain in his back. It was much easier to ruminate on his physical pain than any emotional regrets he harbored. He was sure Robert knew nothing of these inner torments. Every time they shared a glance, Robert was brimming with enthusiasm about sharing his life's work. He was politely oblivious, it seemed. At least, Matthew thought, Robert didn't ask him any questions that weren't farm or cottage related. That much, he could handle.

Finally, after what seemed an eternity, they were back on Abbey property. Matthew removed his hat and mopped his wet brow with his handkerchief, sighing a little at the relief of having fewer gazing eyes upon him. It was so _hot - _his own personal inferno, he mused. The farmers certainly had not been happy with the unseasonable hot spell. Many of them had expressed this openly and vehemently.

_And rather repetitively,_ Matthew thought sullenly.

Robert was not likely to cut anything short today, despite the heat. He had told anyone who would listen (and everyone listens to Lord Grantham) about Matthew's ideas that had changed the estate before the Great War, and that, now, there would be similar improvements in the future.

_The future,_ thought Matthew sullenly as he sucked in a deep breath. He barely lived in the present anymore, he was so miserable. It was as if he could only see life through a smudge on a dirty window. He had no clearer perspective.

The present also meant a fiercely growing back ache and many more hours of trudging still to come. Suddenly, he was reminded of the phrase "bowing and scraping." He remembered someone using it to describe the behavior that Lord Grantham expected of them. It wasn't his mother; she wouldn't say something like that. Why, then, did he remember it so clearly? It had been said at a family dinner, perhaps.

Matthew knew it wasn't fair to be bitter with Robert, but turning on someone else was the only respite he allowed himself privately before returning to berate himself further. Oh his mind was like a barrel of fish these days, and he had no riffle to shoot, and therefore catch, its meaning. _Damn,_ he thought. _Damn it all._

On the lawn of the Abbey, Robert waved to the head gardener. Matthew could no more remember his name than he could his first university professor. He was so exhausted. The sun was so hot. He was completely and utterly miserable. But he would never confess any of this to Robert.

"Samuel," Robert greeted the gardener, who removed his gardening gloves, no doubt in anticipation of a hand shake.

"I wanted to bring Mr. Matthew Crawley around to meet you again. I don't want to interrupt your hedging work, but I thought now was as good a time as any. Matthew and I would like to see what progress you've made down by the small pond. Should there be a dock? I have so many ideas to exchange with you, and _my boy Matthew_ here no doubt has many of his own."

The hand was extended to Matthew, and he did his duty.

"Pleasure is all mine," the gardener said politely. "I'm glad to see you without your cane, if I may say so sir."

Matthew no longer had anything to say to this; he was too agitated. He was a ship in a bottle to everyone. A little project they all took credit for having propped back up. Matthew took a deep breath. _They will think I am just savoring the summer air,_ he thought bitterly.

His frustration with himself would not cease, apparently. He had made so many mistakes. So, very many mistakes. And they all hounded and haunted his mind, just as the pain in his back burned his body. Ruefully, he wondered how he could have neglected to notice this man. He had obviously seen him before. They were all trying to help him. But he was a fraud and an inconsiderate fool, hardly worth any of the praise that Robert continued to pile on him.

"Thank you," he fumbled, "...Samuel."

Robert smiled and took a deep breath himself. "Beautiful day to be outside isn't it?"

"The best, my lord," replied Samuel as they both cast a long glance across the lawn.

Matthew stopped listening to their conversation. He couldn't bear it. He sucked his upper lip into his mouth and bit, rather hard. If only he was numb, rather than in agony, it might make the rest of the afternoon tolerable.

"Matthew," he heard his name suddenly. Turning awkwardly, his feet having been frozen in place, despite the heat, to the grass underneath him. He saw who was calling him. It was Mary. It was silly, but he felt rescued, heaven-sent, because his mood was dropping as the temperature was rising. He simply couldn't handle it anymore.

Without thinking, he seized the opportunity. "Excuse me a moment," he said to Robert who glanced at the situation in front of him and then nodded his casual consent to Matthew, never ceasing his animated conversation with Samuel.

Mary was sitting on a bench, and Matthew so desperately needed to sit down. He thought of nothing else as he crossed the perhaps fifty steps to her location. She held a book in her lap, and he was suddenly struck by a memory, from so long ago, of finding her in a similar situation.

_No_, he thought, _none of that_. _Just a bench for my aching back, I will sit on the bench with my cousin. That is all._

Matthew hummed in satisfaction under his breath as, with what he hoped was only a small groan, he was finally able to relieve the pressure of being on his feet. He was immensely grateful to feel the ache in his spine start to albeit now that he was sitting on _their_ bench. _No_, he corrected himself. It was just a bench. It was just a location. Nothing more was attached to it. Still, he felt the power of the memory, and he couldn't look at Mary, not yet. He still felt completely raw and humiliated. They had laughed here and they had fought here.

Matthew had no idea what they could even talk about, having seen her so rarely since….well…. since. Matthew sucked in a deep breath of the stiflingly hot air. He was grateful she had appeared in his line of vision just when she had, though. He had to say _something_, so he said the first thing that came to his mind.

_"Thank you,"_ he said, his eyes still starting out across the Abbey's green landscape. Maybe he would find the courage to look her in the eyes again, but now was not the moment. Not yet.

He leaned back against the bench, and tried to regain his composure. Suddenly, the satisfaction of being allowed to retreat from Robert, and the pleasure of sitting down, came once more to the forefront of his mind. He gently turned his head towards Mary, looking at her sideways, and repeated his words a second time. She must know how much he meant them.

"Mary," he said softly, _"thank you."_

Authors Note: Find me on tumblr – wdedalus for pictures that relate to this series!

Stay turned for Chapter Three – Where Matthew will be in London on 'Peace Day' July 19th, 1919 to experience the jubilation following the signing of the Treaty of Versailles which finally ended the Great War. And just how will he feel about that? Especially when Robert telegrams him with a request he is both loathsome to deny but anxiously nervous to avoid - accompanying Cousin Mary back to Downton.


	3. July

Chapter Three of _First Steps_ finds Matthew in London before, during and after "Peace Day" July 19th, 1919 after the signing of the treaty of Versailles officially ended the Great War.

**Thanks again to R. Grace** for all the endless moral support and the polish she gave to this chapter. I never would have had the courage to write this if it was not for her.

** First Steps – July **

When Matthew entered the dining room of the Regimental Officer's Club in London, he wanted only one thing - coffee. A strong cup of tea would not be enough for the pressure in his head. The vast ornamental walls of the club were decorated with the crests of every English regiment, creating a muted feeling of awe to penetrate Matthew's aggravation. The room was quiet this time of the morning, most men having already partaken of breakfast. Matthew found a small table with fresh white linen on it situated under the shield of The Duke of Manchester's Own - his regiment - and sat down gruffly.

Despite the rather somber decorations, the room had a certain austere cheerfulness about it. There were many large bay windows letting in copious amounts of natural light from the bright summer day. From his vantage point at the table he now occupied, Matthew could view the club's beautifully landscaped front lawn. He watched men playing at croquet and laughing. The sight made Matthew's complicated emotions constrict inside him, leaving him feeling more of a mess and further out of sorts.

Matthew had languished in bed until well past nine o'clock in the morning. The first sensation he had become aware of upon awakening was the feeling of his feet entangled in his bedding. He felt disoriented and slightly ill from the previous evening's events. His dreams had greatly troubled him and still lingered above him like a black cloud that followed his every thought. Matthew thought he'd feel better once above the covers, but when he changed positions he felt suddenly exposed. The numbness that had once trapped his legs still occupied his body, it had simply relocated. He felt so rotten he couldn't even enjoy the feeling his feet were transmitting to his brain when he moved them across the soft bed linen. He wanted to appreciate the simple pleasure of wiggling his toes, but, though his body performed the action, his mind saw no need to accredit the achievement as worthy of its attention. His mind only spun around on more complicated matters, much to his own shame.

Philosophically speaking, Matthew knew he was stuck in a quandary. He had to make a choice between memories or hope because, currently, he was in limbo, trapped somewhere in between. Overcoming the intensity of his memories had become something of a morning ritual he found it necessary to perform before proceeding dutifully into another day. His memories of the past intermingled with his future hopes. Slowly, Mathew could feel himself building up against resignation. Slowly, despite his inner crisis, he found himself wanting hope to win, especially now that the war was being white washed over in everyone's memory. Could he really fight against the rest of the world? If they moved on, shouldn't he join them?

Matthew remembered standing with William Mason and asking him, "am I ready?" It was a memory he revisited time and time again. When Matthew had finally stretched out in bed late the previous evening he had tossed and turned, unable to get comfortable. So he had left the curtains open, for the view of London's night sky seemed to cradle his damaged concept of reality. It was hard to finally accept that the war was over. After the celebrations came and went, he had felt a crushing sensation of pessimism. At the club he was different, especially since yesterday had been _Peace Day_ as the politicians called it. Under normal circumstances, Matthew was not much of a gambler. Despite having played cards often enough in France he still couldn't bluff worth a damn. Gambling on fate, betting on their chances...poker was solace for soldiers. So Matthew played poker. He tried to blend in and just abandon himself to the game.

The Treaty of Versailles had been signed, and the Great War was not simply at a cease fire, as the armistice of the previous November had signified, but was now officially over. Matthew had seen King Edward with his own two eyes. He was just another lost soul waiting in the crowds to hear his sovereign's words of guidance and fortitude in Hyde Park. For a moment the locomotive in his head that constantly fueled his many obstinate thoughts had burned its last piece of coal, and there was a glorious silence within. He somberly stood shoulder to shoulder with strangers in the crowd for a moment of silent veneration. But, all too soon, the tempo of his mood had changed to impertinence as the day's spectacles continued. The victorious Allied commanders were to lead, by some reports at the club, over fifteen thousand soldiers in the parades through the streets of London.

The highlight of Matthew's day had been when his former commanding officer, General Strut, introduced him to the Frenchman, Ferdinand Foch, and the American, John Pershing. They were two of the more prestigiously decorated generals amongst the Allied forces. It had made him feel strangely reverent to shake their hands, more so than any of the other celebrations that he had witnessed. When he was with these older men, something had stirred within him and his numbness had temporarily abated, for neither the choirs singing in Hyde Park nor the lavish fireworks had moved him in the same way. He had felt as stiff as the Cenotaph that had been marched through the parades. The Cenotaph was to become a permanent monument that would honor all fallen soldiers, known and unknown. It was constructed of Portland stone. Matthew felt almost envious of it – for it would always know what it was made of.

Matthew had, during the celebrations, brought many bottles of beer to his lips, drinking in the refreshing brew after having been outside in the heat all day. The taste of the alcohol lingered on his lips, and he was grateful for the distracting sensation. Matthew was not usually an advocate for drink, but he had made this day an exception. The next morning he would worry about the consequences. That reckless attitude had always achieved his goals for him right? In the past, he had, time and time again, rushed into a situation without sparing a thought to consequences. He had no consideration for others, he was selfish, and he thought only of himself. Yes, that was who he was, after all.

When he had had taken the tram back to the officer's club well after midnight, he had not stopped in the street as others had to listen to a barber shop quartet crooning the song, _The End of a Perfect Day. _He may have hummed the words to himself, but he had not stopped. Instead, he had stared blankly at the program he had purchased from a street vendor that detailed the day's celebrations. The cost of the program was only a penny, but the other costs had not been factored into this price. The leaflet was printed on cheap paper and the sentiments inside were flimsier still, yet it was a souvenir he felt he would always keep. He tucked it into his breast pocket protectively.

As he first entered the Officer's club that night the additional decorations for the day had caught his attention. _It is over_, he thought. _The war is over_; his mind was slowly accepting this concept. The entryway's walls and elaborate chandeliers, which he had given no particular notice earlier, now glowed like angels illuminating the dangling laurel wreaths. Next to the entrance was mounted the White Ensign, the Red Ensign, and the Union Jack Flag representing the Navy, the Mercantile Marine, and the Army. The patriotic sight overwhelmed him and he stopped abruptly, forcing other soldiers coming and going to step around him. Matthew knew he should have gone to bed. It was so late at night that it was early the next morning, technically. And he was so very tired. Mentally and physically, he was extremely weary. But, if the war was over, the search for meaning would begin, and he felt provoked by this thought to have another drink instead. So he made another rash decision.

When he entered the gaming room, Matthew was courteously invited by General Strut to join him at his table to play a round of poker. All three men that Matthew spent the early morning hours with oozed confidence, pride, and integrity - all qualities he felt he did not. But when General Foch cynically predicted the peace holding for only a single generation, General Pershing would counteract his cynicism with optimism. The atmosphere of these senior men, these experienced, worldly leaders allowing him, a simple soldier and country solicitor, into their world had meant everything to Matthew in a way he couldn't express. He felt blessed. So, he had sat and drank, and lost his money to them. The last resemblance of his weak-willed poker face vanishing when General Strut actually praised him, not just as the captain that he had been under his command, but also for his future inheritance. It caught Matthew quite off guard. British nobility was a subject of fascination, it seemed, to the American and French Generals before him. He felt as though he were suddenly being played like a chip on the table.

"Crawley here will be the Earl of Grantham some day," General Strut had said nonchalantly as he puffed his cigar.

And then he explained to his companions that Matthew's family had used their grand ancestral estate as a convalesce hospital. The men all nodded their hardy appreciation. General Foch even called for a waiter, yelling instructions as the man approached. Soon gin and champagne appeared and were mixed together in a pilsner glass topped with brandied cherries and a lemon twist. Matthew accepted the drink politely, and they all raised their glasses and drank a toast _to peace_.

Matthew had suddenly seen the absurdly of the situation, as he sat between this trio of men. He may have been inebriated, but he suddenly understood they only saw him for his title, for his future prospects. They were just like everyone else. Matthew, to these generals, was their little toy dog to be carried around for good luck. He patted his pocket to feel the object. This was not how it was suppose to work. Gathering up what little remained to him in money and in dignity he had offered his respectful excuses and wished them a good night.

Sleep, though needed, had not come easily. He could hear through his bedroom walls the celebrations that seemed never ending. The jubilation was easy to embrace; the reality afterwards was the true challenge. The fireworks that kept buzzing and banging outside reminded him of mortar fire. In his dreams, when sleep had finally claimed him, he was trapped by mustard gas. He had tried to elude the poison but, "_my legs"_, he realized in terror, "my legs are paralyzed. _I am going to die."_ Matthew didn't - couldn't - move, and the darkness closed in around him. He had no parting thoughts, no time even for a goodbye to those he loved.

When he awoke from this brief sojourn into sleep where his nightmares had been in control he had achieved little actual rest. Matthew had been awakened by the loud slurring drunken words ricocheting between two angry men shouting at each other in the hall outside his bedroom. What bothered Matthew the most was that he understood the helplessness their argument was illustrating. The focus of their conversation quickly became more decidedly bitter as the strangers yelled about the concept of death. One of the men recited a short poem that Matthew had never heard before but that resonated deep within him more so than he wanted to acknowledge or admit. His paralysis had never healed in that moment for he felt pinned to his bed, trapped, just as he had been in the dream. His legs were useless, his back aching and his head throbbing. The words haunted him as they latched onto the very fiber of his soul.

_They ask me where I've been,  
And what I've done and seen.  
But what can I reply  
Who know it wasn't I,  
But someone just like me,  
Who went across the sea  
And with my head and hands  
Killed men in foreign lands...  
Though I must bear the blame,  
Because he bore my name.*_

Matthew felt hollow. He wished in vain he wouldn't be subjected to any more of the chaos that was all around him. He buried his head in his pillow and pressed his watering eyes shut. For the first time since his arrival only a few days before, Matthew felt almost desperate to return to Crawley House. He fought back tears and tried stretching his legs. _I am okay,_ he whispered to himself, trying to calm his frazzled nerves.

His drinking the previous night was certainly punishing him this morning. He felt nausea everywhere, infecting him. For when he thought back to only a few days ago, it felt as though a much longer period of time surely had passed... and yet it had not. He was stuck and out of place. Everything he did was wrong, but only he could see that. This trip had been another mistake, one of so many.

Matthew had been very eager to accept when he had received the invitation from the officer's club. Observing the celebrations in London would be a once in a lifetime experience. And it gave him a very proper excuse to escape life at Downton for a few days. The atmosphere at Downton made him feel like Atlas holding up the world. He saw very little of his Abbey family, but thoughts of what had transpired there still haunted him. Robert sought him out and took him _other_ places, but rarely did he accept any other invitations from his mentor. Matthew had to admit he had no quarrels with spending additional time with Robert. Not at all. In fact, he had come to depend on the man to fill his empty hours. When he could not work late at his law office in Ripon, or on Sunday, he felt the madness creeping in on him. He appreciated his mother's compassion, but eventually he had been forced to explain to her that her hovering frustrated him a bit. So, she left him alone to find his own leisure, and Matthew had then understood that, without Robert's constant badgering, he would have been quite lonely.

The stay at the officer's club had been almost like a holiday for him. When he had first arrived and entered his room he had felt enormous relief. No one here had any expectations of him. They didn't worry or fret about him here. He wanted to simply try to forget anything and everything that troubled him, so he set his mind on the simple task of unpacking. It had been many months since he had last worn his uniform, and he felt he should inspect it before he was to again wear it in public. As he unfolded his red jacket, he found that it contained a stowaway hidden inside his left pocket. Suddenly, Matthew was reminded of the moment before luncheon when his mother had found the little dog and questioned him in front of Lavinia. His face flushed at the embarrassing memory. He had let her down even then. He had been untrue to her in all of his thoughts. But he had loved Lavinia; her love had come at a time when he was most grateful for a beautiful face that reciprocated affection so quickly. He had only himself to blame, and he did. For, he had not reciprocated appropriately; he had been selfish and hurt her. Matthew had thought, then and there, to hide the dog in his uniform because the two were so closely associated with each other. Nobody would dare disturb his uniform again, and his secret - Mary's dog -could remain hidden once more. _Well_, he thought a flush of bewilderment crashing over him, _what now_? _Secrets are always found out eventually._ He felt his knees buckle underneath him and he collapsed on the bed suddenly, unable to look at the lucky charm. Matthew hated to be aware of the comfort it still seemed to give him because he did not deserve it. Yet, he could not stop himself from clutching the toy between his fingers and thinking of Mary. _No_, he though acrimoniously, _I must stop this_... but he didn't move. And he continued to hold the little stuffed dog.

So, he had settled into a routine at the club. For a few days it had been enough. He had found there were plenty of men he could spend time with, and they never required conversation to pass between them. As long as he could bankroll cards on the table he had a place - he felt he belonged. The time had been frustrating only to his wallet, which was now exceptionally light. But, following Peace Day, Matthew was tired of the club. _Memories or hope,_ he reminded himself, _choose one._

Matthew sat in the dining room trying to hold his thoughts to the present moment, anxiously awaiting the arrival of the much -needed coffee. He knew his queasy stomach would not be able to hold much, so he had only ordered toast with honey. He glanced at the newspaper on the table. On the front page there was a message from King Edward and it read:

_To these, the sick and wounded who cannot take part in the festival of victory, I send out greetings and bid them good cheer, assuring them that the wounds and scars so honourable in themselves, inspire in the hearts of their fellow countrymen the warmest feelings of gratitude and respect. _

Matthew swallowed down the bile that rose in his throat. His thoughts were a jumbled mess, and his eyes felt like two anvils being constantly struck. He sat blankly starting at the printed words, unable to tear his gaze from the newspaper. When the waiter finally appeared with a cup of coffee and his toast, he was immensely grateful for the distraction from his own emotions. That is, until he sipped the hot liquid and nearly became sick.

"Ho there, sir," the waiter's voice bellowed in his ringing ears.

"Easy, Captain Crawley."

Matthew eyed the waiter suspiciously. He was in no mood to guess how his identity could be known amongst so many soldiers. Anonymity was one of the few things he still possessed that gave him comfort, and it had just been stripped from him. Matthew felt the rage inside him build. The last thing he needed was to be coddled like a child that had spilt his pudding. But before he could comment the waiter was already nervously explaining. His voice was rushed, but his tone practiced, as if this kind of situation happened to him quite frequently. It was a rather sad thought to Matthew, and he tried to adjust his posture in his chair and regain his composure.

"General Strut pointed you out to me," the young man explained. "I also have a telegram for you, sir."

The young man... No, actually he looked more like a boy now that Matthew took proper glance at him. He couldn't be older than sixteen, yet his countenance was so calm and steady. Matthew had to choke back a thought of William. That is why King Edward's words bothered him - all the sacrifices that he had seen and personally been apart of. The boy handed him the piece of paper nervously. Matthew had not wanted anyone to notice his body's ill-timed rebellion, but they had, including General Strut from across the room. Matthew was resigned to play the fool he felt. Trying to achieve some shred of self-control -or at least proper, civil behavior towards the innocent waiter, Matthew thanked him and accepted the telegram. His receiving hand was shaking only slightly. It was possible, though not likely, that it went unnoticed.

When Matthew opened the telegram, he found it was from Cousin Robert. It was simple and direct, and asked a favor of him. While Matthew was ready to return, the circumstances were now less than ideal. Perhaps if he pretended it was Edith or Sybil who needed his gentlemanly escort he would feel up to the role. However, it was Mary. Robert was requesting he accompany _Mary_ back to Downton.

It was merely a formality: a general concern for his daughter's safety, given the unstable temperature of the city's occupants following the previous day's celebrations. But Matthew did not like the idea. Mary should stay in her world of fancy parties and merriment with her aunt's crowd of people and enjoy herself. Her fiancée lived in London, and maybe that was where she should be too. It would be unfair to Mary for her to have to witness his misery. He was a complete and utter bore, he knew that. She should not know this shell of a man he felt he was. Actions had consequences, and he must atone for his. However, before Matthew could continue to take stock of Robert's request, he noticed General Strut approaching him. He turned the telegram over, face down, and wished the note would just disappear.

"Good morning, Crawley," General Strut said pleasantly as he continued towards him. Matthew scrambled to stand up, but tripped slightly, his legs tangled in the table linen from a combination of a lack of motor skill and a sharp twinge in his lower back. _It is only a phantom pain,_ he told himself vehemently. He was loathe to acknowledge the memory of his former injury.

General Strut extended a hand and caught Matthew's in what, to others, would have only looked like a handshake, but it offered Matthew enough support to correct his earlier stumble. He leaned into the contact from the older man gratefully.

"Please forgive my barging in," General Strut offered briskly. There was often an accelerated efficiency to the way his former commanding officer spoke that, oddly enough, put Matthew at ease.

"I hope you haven't just received bad news," he continued as he gestured for Matthew to resume sitting while he himself occupied the next chair.

Matthew felt his stomach flip... and not just from the nausea. What kind of news had he just received? How could he explain it? Why did several hours of sitting next to Cousin Mary make him so uneasy? It was a simple request, and he should honor it. But, he was tainted, corrupted and cursed. And nobody understood, _except Mary_. Robert would never ask such a favor of him if he knew the truth about his past actions. Matthew tried to hide the shiver he felt spread through his body. It was important that Mary move on with her life, even if he could not. The stain on his character should not spread to her. But he could utter none of these inner musings aloud; he must find some other rational explanation.

"No," Matthew stuttered. "Thank you for your concern, sir." He felt the collar of his uniform choking him as he spoke.

"It is not bad news, just a surprise, is all. Seems I will need to return to my," the last word seemed to stick in Matthew's throat, "_home_..." He paused and reached for his coffee, taking a large gulp and swallowing quickly the way one does with medicine that has a fowl taste.

"...sooner than I had expected," Matthew concluded. He drew in a deep breath at having completed the sentence, his hands nervously curled around his coffee mug. Matthew thought about taking another sip of the liquid, but wasn't sure he could bear it.

"Well," Strut said matter-of-factly, "being free of London and all this sometimes manic gayety doesn't sound so bad to me." There was a pause between the men, but Matthew, not being in full possession of his senses, could think of nothing to fill the silence. He could only think of the torture of sitting next to Mary, and he hated himself. She should not be with him, of all people. They should be kept apart. But he would have to risk his sanity to preserve her safety. He owed Robert this small favor, after all.

"_Matthew_," General Strut began again, addressing him by his first name, which was rather a rare occurrence. His voice was as confident as ever. His mood could not be displaced like others, it would seem.

"Do you know what I keep thinking about?"

Matthew started to shake his head but stopped, as the pounding in his skull forbade it. Instead, he risked another sip of his coffee, looking at Strut to indicate he was listening.

"Well," General Strut spoke his voice emblazoned with the strength of his convictions, "I just keep thinking of what the great Admiral Nelson once said: 'Thank God, I have done my duty.'" Strut concluded by knocking his right fist on the table with a light rap of his knuckles.

Matthew mulled the words over in his head for a moment. Silence once again filled the void between them. However, it was not uncomfortable; it made him long for the hope that seemed always just outside his grasp. So, when General Strut stood, Matthew did not notice. He thought of Mary and the conversation they had just before his ill-timed proposal, all those years ago. _Don't play with me,_ he remembered telling her when she asked him how he felt about duty and obligation. His eyes then fell to the overturned piece of paper in front of him as he pondered the quote Strut had shared and the meaning behind it.

"Please accept my best wishes, Crawley," Strut spoke, addressing him casually as was his habit. For such a sometimes brusque man, his formal tone changed subtly, and Matthew looked up at the General their eyes meeting.

"I'm ever so pleased to see you recovered," Strut concluded. The sincerity of the older man's powerful voice rang in Matthew's ears. He knew he may not be able to repay his debt to others, but he could show his appreciation here and now. It was a new beginning, after all. The war was over. Matthew stood up with as much grace as he could muster, and, this time, he respectfully extended his hand first. Strut accepted the handshake with all the dignity accredited to someone of his rank.

"Thank you, _sir_," Matthew offered sincerely, emphasizing his words. He felt that odd pang inside again- the awe of being placed in a truly humbling moment. Although he did not remember much of anything before he had awoken at the hospital in Downton, he had a very dim memory of Strut standing over him in a makeshift hospital tent in France. He thought he had heard the General call his name... the familiar bark of '_Crawley!_' and then he asked for a report about his condition from a field medic. Perhaps it had not happened. Maybe it was all a hallucination from the morphine. Matthew knew he would never ask his superior officer, but he was indebted, regardless, for the time they had spent together.

"_Thank you_," he repeated again, hoping his meaning was understood.

"Indeed," General Strut said, finally releasing his hand from the grip of their strong handshake.

"Farewell, Crawley," General Strut concluded as he turned without further comment and walked way with his strong, confident steps.

Matthew felt himself weakly deflate back into his chair. His eyes then fell again to the telegram. _Home_. I am going home. He would be glad to see Mother and to sleep in his own bed at Crawley House. To reclaim the comforting patterns of his daily routines.

It was a simple task, therefore, to reframe his mind so that he could achieve this objective. An entire train ride with Mary? He was going to need a strategy. The obvious solution was that, since he was already trying to protect her, sitting next to her should not change anything between them. This brought the tiniest crumb of hope back into his mind. _Yes_, he thought. _I can do this. I've done far worse things, far harder things after all. _Besides he rationalized the legitimate fatigue he felt could be his excuse for wishing not to talk during their time together. He did not want to be rude, but he would have to force that point with her. Matthew felt brave enough to bite into his toast as he contemplated this journey ahead of him. He was there only for Mary's protection, he was simply her escort, and he would think only of her and never of himself. He would do his duty and honor Robert's request. Of course he would. He had no choice.

Author's notes: On my tumblr account –**wdedalus**- I will have pictures that inspired parts of this story. Check it out if you are curious and thanks for reading! I plan to do this for each chapter as the story continues.

-*Wilfred Gibson's poem_ "Back"_ is the poem Matthew overheard. Both the title of the poem and the subject matter I thought were perfect for Matthew's injury and his frame of mind.

-I drew Matthew's reoccurring philosophical thoughts of Hope and Memory from Kierkegaard's "Fear and Trembling."

++++++++++++++++Preview + Next chapter ++++++++++++++++

In _**August**_ Matthew will be ruminating on William Mason's birthday that they celebrated together the previous year in France before their last battle at Amiens. And in the cemetery Matthew will be joined by another visitor that has come to pay her respects, and not just to William.

Stay Tuned!


	4. Bonus Chapter July The Train Ride

Authors Note: Well this came and struck me completely by surprise. When this was repeatedly suggested to me – this improve chapter happened! Not originally planned as one of my moments between M&M but a bonus chapter! Thanks as always to R. Grace.

* * *

**First Steps – July –The Train – Mary's POV**

"That's yesterday's newspaper," Matthew snapped. "Why are _you_ keeping it?"

Matthew's question provoked several emotions in Mary that she would never have confessed to. The truth was, she had rescued the newspaper to preserve because it would always remind her of better days. Of how Matthew had been spared, how her prayers had been answered. But she could not tell him that, so she formed a different answer.

"Since you asked, I'm only keeping the newspaper for the word-cross puzzle. I always do the word-cross when there is one, and I didn't have any time yesterday."

"Oh," he said simply in response. The anger in his voice giving way was a sad shift. Why was she constantly tricking herself into lying to him? Perhaps she should have told him the truth. But how would the man sitting next to her react to the news that she, of all people, was sentimental about the follies of yesterday's lavish celebrations? And that it had all meant so much to her because of _him_.

"Don't be so shocked, Matthew," Mary said, reaching around in her purse until she brought forth a pen. She wondered if she should tease him, just a little. Just to, hopefully, animate his sad demeanor. How would he respond? If she were to judge purely by his outward appearance, she would never attempt it, for his entire posture betrayed just one word - exhaustion. Still, Mary decided she would take the tongue lashing if he offered it. She didn't know when the next time she would see him would occur. He had retreated away from her and away from the Abbey since Lavinia's death last spring. So, for now she was going to bravely march into the line of fire.

"Do you think it's not lady like to do a word-cross?" Mary challenged him. She kept her eyes on the puzzle and not on him. Her words, she hoped, concealed the true timber of her voice aching to banter with him, to latch on to the spark in his eyes that always made butterflies appear in her belly.

"No, I … well." Matthew spoke the few broken words, and it took all of Mary's reserve not to reach out to him. The spark she longed to see would not rekindle; it had been snuffed out. And she knew she was to blame. His halting speech was a reminder of his physical appearance having become so altered. Matthew's pinstripe suit was very dashing and the cut accented his trim figure, but to Mary it only said volumes about the weight he must have lost recently. The material was wrinkled and creased from the way it was forced to drape over his lean body. And there was nothing she could do. She was powerless, and this was not a sensation that Mary had ever come to terms with. For when she felt powerless she became upset, and when she was upset…

"Forgive me," Matthew said softly, breaking into her musings. She watched his mouth twitch open to speak again, but nothing happened. He swallowed apprehensively and pinched the bridge of his nose. Mary could see his hand fall and land on his thigh, his fingers drumming ceaselessly from nerves.

"I'm rather out of sorts…" he spoke, his voice trailing off again.

Mary let it go with that, and there was silence between them. But she didn't feel it was a horrible awkward silence. No, it was simply a necessity at the moment. While he had not taken her playful bait, he also hadn't rudely snapped at her. If she gave him a few minutes to collect himself, maybe they could start over. Perhaps she could get him to talk to her. She had hope, just for this small act. Having to watch him being him so despondent was going to make the train ride completely intolerable.

Mary had been exceedingly grateful to have finally been able to take their seats after a slight delay and miscommunication when they had purchased their tickets. In order to avoid Matthew's sour mood escalating, Mary had been forced to take action. She had filled their extra time by suggesting Matthew get his shoes shined. They were awfully scuffed, no doubt from his activities the previous day. A little shine would make him look his best, which was all she wanted. Besides, Mary had also observed Matthew needed to get off of his feet. As she'd watched and waited for him, she'd daydreamed about yesterday's madness. She had seen very little of the celebrations in Hyde Park, her aunt and society friends being uninterested in facing the crowds. She was grateful that Richard hadn't made the affair either, being too occupied with press coverage details for his newspapers.

While Mary had indulged in more than a few cocktails the previous day, it appeared as though Matthew had practically drunk the city dry. He had a pale and awkward tremor about his manner. His steps were again frail. But she had to remind herself – he could take steps, at least.

She would have loved to have seen him in his uniform again; she was sure he had worn it proudly yesterday. Her father had told her that General Strut, Matthew's former commanding officer, had written to him personally to invite him to London. She and her father had shared a moment of appreciation for how respected Matthew was and how well he had represented their family.

When Aunt Rosamund had told her the plan over breakfast, she knew her well enough to believe she wasn't joking. Rosamund had made several daft comments about Matthew saving the day and had even tried to get her to bet on how long it would take before he responded to her brother's telegram. Oh, Lord Grantham didn't know any better. Mary knew that. He was only trying to help, naive as always about Rosamund's actions. The one comfort she took from the meddling was the knowledge that her family did so overwhelmingly believe in Matthew. They cared for him, and that was a tremendous joy to her. Still, it caused its own little earthquakes in her equilibrium, for she had to remember, time and time again, that not only was Matthew not hers, he never would be. So, as she sat on the train enjoying her window seat view, the Thames may very well have been the River Styx.

While Mary had never imaged any danger or violence could come to her at the train station, Matthew had, however, felt differently. There was an overabundance of people, and they had to stay rather close to each other to avoid being swallowed up in the swirling multitude. Not that Mary minded. She let him take her bag, and he had purchased their tickets. When the steward said, "have a good trip, Mr. and Mrs. Crawley," Matthew had said nothing. It had frightened her because, in that moment, his jaw did not drop, his fists did not clench. There had been no visible clue to his feelings, which was unusual for Matthew. When Mary could not read the physical map his posture usually displayed, her heart ached for him further. She wanted to do anything to bring back the Matthew she'd once known, who would always relax around her, despite the circumstances. But perhaps, she thought, berating herself, she had killed that Matthew when she'd come down the stairs. When they had danced and talked and suddenly kissed. If she had not made that decision to interrupt his solitude, perhaps so much further tragedy could have been avoided. But Mary knew all to well that she had to live with the choices she had made. It was just that she had always wanted to protect Matthew from her ill timing, and she had failed him once again.

Still, in the train station, she had taken a measure of comfort from the assumption that Matthew was seen as her husband. It was very unfair to him, especially after she knew what her future was to be. And she did not blame Matthew for being cross with her. But she had never been so proud to have been seen with him. It was as though everything was choreographed to make him appear every bit the knight in shinning armor. Matthew held the door for an older woman and he picked up the wooden toy boat a little boy had dropped. But, those moments were gone now. Matthew was gone now, having retreated deep within himself, to a place not even she could pull him from. Mary thought of the sullen, depressed man he had been last fall. How odd that she should miss that form. The man that had bitterly called himself "the cat that walks by himself" - who had claimed he had nothing to give and nothing to share.

Mary ventured a look in his direction turning, her head slightly to her left. Since he had been so quiet, Mary had thought perhaps he would have succumbed to a catnap by now. But there he sat, eyes glazed over, wide awake, staring out the window on his other side rather than in her direction. She wished to try to engage him in conversation again. Looking down at her newspaper and the puzzle on the page, she had the urge to bait him and she knew just how to get his attention again.

"Give me a four letter word for a river in Russia," Mary said briskly, hopefully her tone had once again being emptied of all emotions and was just a command he would follow.

"What?" Matthew said, his voice sounding so weak and lost.

Mary played her part and rolled her eyes in case he was watching her and repeated her question. She tapped her pen against the puzzle to illustrate that she needed the information.

"_Give me_ a four letter word for a river in Russia."

There was only silence and Mary had to risk it. She tore her eyes of the paper and to the man sitting next to her. He was rubbing his reddish eyes and trying to hide a yawn. He was tired and his nerves were taxed. She brought her eyes reluctantly away. But even with just those few seconds, she relished the cataloguing of his features her quick eyes had made. The stubble on his cheeks because he hadn't shaved, the dark shadows pooled around his eyes that cast a gloom around his face, his windblown hair with its cowlicks sticking up out of place. She thought fondly about how much he needed a haircut to relieve the strands of gold from perching so far forward onto his brow. But, most of all, she painfully missed the innocent confusion in those ocean blue eyes of his.

"Well," Matthew spoke up after another long pause. "The Neva?" He offered.

"That is all I can think of," he said quietly. "I'm sorry, my head is pounding. I'm going to close my eyes now. I hope that helps …" Mary had thought he was finished speaking when the last word crept out. "..._you_," he finished.

Sitting so close to him, Mary could offer her body no release of emotion at the turmoil he was making her feel. She ached to reach out for him, to hold his hand or massage the tension from his shoulders. To kiss the stubble of his checks or press a wet flannel to his tense brow. Last year she would have done these things with out pause, just because he needed the contact, because he needed a friend. But last year he had not been independent. Last year she had not broken his heart again. She was completely willing to take all the blame, even if she knew the burden was mutual. It was her turn to feel helpless now. Besides, she tried to rationalize to herself, he was speaking to her, and that was a vast enough improvement.

So, Mary crossed her legs under her skirts and made as though she was simply adjusting herself in her seat. Her eyes finally found their way back to the puzzle, and she found Neva did in fact fit perfectly. She felt a rush of simple euphoria that they had worked together. Mary again braced herself and turned her head to her left to look at Matthew. But this time she did not have to worry. He was lightly dozing already. And so she let her eyes have free rein over his pinched face. Then she made a decision. The puzzle in her hand was not nearly as interesting as the one sitting next to her. She neatly packed away the newspaper and retrieved a book, although she had no desire to read it. He could sleep, and she would silently look after him.

As she continued to stare at him, he stirred, his hands fidgeting restlessly. Matthew sucked in a shaky breath, releasing a little wound that reminded Mary of when Isis walked on a bur and yelped. So she did what came naturally to her. She cooed and clucked little sounds at him before she could even stop herself - the urge to comfort him was so automatic - and it worked. Without even thinking, she found her hand cradling his. When she tried to remove her hand his grip tightened. Mary continued to stare at him, blindly reaching for her purse with her other hand to find a handkerchief for her misting eyes. She dabbed at her eyes and continued to watch over him, just like last year. Just like she could have always done if things had been different. However, she was stuck with the choices she had made. Mary couldn't take her eyes off his sleeping form. In a way, she had time now to say goodbye. _Yes_, she thought, _this train ride is exactly what we both needed._

Mary had no idea how much time had lapsed when she thought she heard Matthew sigh in his sleep. She couldn't be sure - because she couldn't be sure of anything between them anymore - but she thought he had said something, just one word, and it sounded like her name. She could have been mistaken, but it sounded like he whispered, "_Mary_."

* * *

**First Steps – July –The Train – Matthew's POV**

Matthew found himself yelling at Mary before he could even help it. He was ashamed of himself for displaying such vulgar manors. He didn't want to sound like he was accusing her of a crime. But every nerve in his aching body was set on fire by seeing her while in his raw state. A part of Matthew also felt immense relief that she wasn't keeping the newspaper as a memento. He didn't like to think of the celebrations out of context regarding the end of the war. For so long it had just been men suffering and to include women, children and all relations for every soldier taxed his already overly burdened mind and seriously broke his fragile heart. Mary should not concern herself with such matters. Better she stay happy and free, away from them.

But would Mary really do a word-cross puzzle? The irony was so bitter. Mary was a word cross puzzle herself, and he had none of the answers. He had never understood a single moment in her presence - why she made him feel more alive, more alert, and more himself than any other person he had ever known. It as a cruel reality, but he could never allow this feeling to return. He did not deserve Mary. Matthew knew his tone was a little too sharp but he couldn't control himself properly. He felt a laundry list of stressful ailments assaulting him, causing a necessary economy of his limited energy. So he remained silent.

"_Do you think it's not lady like to do a word cross?"_ Mary challenged him. He felt a sad anger that she couldn't bear to look at him. He was a disappointment to her, obviously. How could he answer such a question as the one she had just posed to him? Matthew had done word-cross puzzles years ago when he had free time, when he had been a free man, before war and the life of a soldier had consumed him. But he would never have connected the puzzle hidden in a newspaper to something that would interest her. He was secretly pleased. Suddenly, he was lost in a memory that consumed him.

Matthew remembered being propped up with pillows in his bed in the hospital by Mary so they could play a proper game of chess. He had grown bored and restless with her usual task of reading aloud to him. Matthew knew it was childish to sulk, but he couldn't help it. He was sad and sore and he felt cast away from the rest of the world. It was a horrible irony to him that he was paralyzed, his legs numb, because the rest of him had never felt more alive as the pain in his heart spread like wildfire. So, when she appeared with the chess pieces from her father's private collection, he had been moved practically to blubbering. She had given him no choice, only a challenge that he couldn't beat her. And so they had played three games, two of which he won. Soon after his second victory his eyelids grew heavy and exhaustion claimed him. He had rested peacefully without a sleeping draught for the first time since his arrival. The over-taxation of his mind had calmed his restless body, it seemed. And it was Mary that had given him that release. She always knew somehow just what to do and how to cure him.

Matthew shook his head realizing the inappropriate reflection of his being so lost in thought. He was always embarrassing himself, and she was no longer interested in saving him. This was quite right. He didn't deserve it anyway. Perhaps this was a good development; he could see that Mary's world was not infected, that her fiancée was not trapped in the past and had no war wounds, visible or invisible, for her to have to worry over. Why did it always have to be so complicated when it came to Mary? He should just answer her and not labor over each and every question. It was rather ridiculous. _H_e was rather ridiculous. _Just say something already,_ he berated himself. _Anything you fool! Spit it out!_ And words came out of him suddenly, although they were not what he had expected.

"_Forgive me," he said and then his mouth opened to speak again but nothing happened. _

"_I'm rather out of sorts…" and his speech trailed off again. _

Matthew knew where he stood with her now, at least. She was justifiably mortified, no doubt, about his presence, his fatigued appearance being a far cry from her crowd of acquiesces in London. Although he had tried to just be a gentleman and act as her chaperone in the station, everything he did caused further strife between them. When he purchased the tickets, assumptions were made about their common last name. And when the train was delayed she had used their extra time to mock his outward appearance and suggested he pay to have his shoes shined. Matthew knew he was never good enough for her, but he couldn't help but, once again, feel the sting of being called out as the poor relation. That she cared about such trivial things vexed him.

These crystal clear assertions had started with his reception at Rosamund's house. Mary had made several snide comments about wanting to hear about "Peace Day" from a soldier's point of view. But before he could fumble for a response, she had changed the topic to lavishing him with praise for having responded so promptly to her father's telegram. This was how he knew his temper was about to boil and his mood was not to be trusted as an accurate barometer for any future circumstances he was to face with Mary. For when she had appeared before him in her modest train clothes, he felt a surge of memories strike him. He didn't want to stand on a train platform with her again. _Leave me just that moment_, he wanted to plead. _Why must everything be undone?_ For the sake of whatever sanity he still processed, he had to push them aside, bury them, and even hide the shovel from his conscious mind. He had a task, a mission that was all. After all, he was just a soldier as she had pointed out. He was just following orders.

But when they had finally taken their seats on the train, Matthew started to worry he couldn't keep his guard up. He felt every nerve in his body betray him as the tension grew and the stress built. He could smell Mary's perfume, a sweet peony essence. Matthew closed his eyes briefly because just the simple, familiar scent made him feel better. But there was no way he deserved this simple treat.

Matthew had no desire to look out at the landscape of London, for it was a city that had always seemed to make a liar out of him. It was where he had met Lavinia and been convinced of her love, of their love. London had been her city, her home. It didn't feel appropriate to share the place with thoughts of Mary. Looking across the train aisle towards the opposite window he could see the river Thames. Matthew saw the familiar building of St. Thomas Hospital, a place that also held further secrets. For as much as he would enjoy returning to that place, it was an indulgence that now seemed impossible. Last spring during his recovery when his back's healing had left him in agony, his mother had arranged for him to have massage therapy there. While the process helped immensely to soothe the aches in his inflamed spinal muscles, the declaration he had made now seemed even more inappropriate then it had then. While in a transcendent release from the pain of his massage, the doctor had asked him about his fiancée, and Matthew's mind had betrayed him. He had slipped and said Mary's name when he knew perfectly well he should have said Lavinia's. At every turn and every chance he had never been the gentleman he had tried to be in his adult existence.

"_Give me a four letter word for a river in Russia_," Mary said. Her voice was rather loud and impatient to his ringing ears.

"What?" Matthew found himself saying, rather peeved at her interrupting his thoughts. Sometimes being interrupted was a blessing in disguise, but that didn't stop the turmoil from churning inside him. The nausea in his stomach was not being helped by the train's unsteady rocking either. He couldn't help but sometimes press his fingers into the tension in his aching head; not to ease the stress, but to distract himself from his other complaints.

"_Give me a four letter word for a river in Russia." _The way Mary tapped her pen against the paper sent a shiver through him. Matthew thought of Mary on one of her country rides that the aristocracy loved so much, hunting and gathering the weak prey that didn't stand a chance. It was very silly, but he had a sudden image of her loading a gun and firing the kill shot. She would have made a much better soldier than he had been.

_No, _he had to tell himself_. Forget all that, forget everything. Dig deeper and bury everything. Answer the question now – she will pester you until you complete her task, after all._

_Russia. River. Four Letters. _

Matthew felt a jaw-cracking yawn upon him unexpectedly. He was so exhausted, so tired and weary. He knew there were many times in the trenches when he was sleep-deprived for days, many times following his father's death that he had a sleep deficient, and there were many further incidences following his injury when he could not make his brain turn off and allow him rest. However, as his current lethargy was hitting him, he stretched his aching body and rubbed his pounding head, feeling the need for sleep more pronounced then ever before. He would have to surrender to it soon; he was defeated.

"_Well,"_ Matthew said after another long pause. _"The Neva?"_ he offered weakly. Another whiff of Mary's perfume assaulted him. God, he was tired, his stomach was hurting, and he ached everywhere. Yesterday had been a cathartic day and the ramifications were still impacting him. He stretched his legs and felt his posture slump in his seat, but he didn't care. He had absolutely no energy left to battle his weariness.

"_That is all I can think of," he said quietly. "I'm sorry, my head is pounding I'm going to close my eyes now. I hope that helps_ …" Matthew wanted to say her name but he didn't feel he could bear it. He had never deserved to let the name once more come off his lips so heated with his own ill-timed passion. If he said her name from his lips now - lips that had pressed against her own last spring, the lips that wanted to press against her now despite everything else that told him it was wrong. If he said her name, it would bring it all out again. So, he couldn't say her name.

"_...you,"_ he finished.

And Matthew gave in to the darkness and closed his eyes. It did not take long for sleep to claim him. But it did not feel like sleep; it felt more like descending into purgatory.

Matthew was on a, wooden toy boat: the same object he had earlier picked up for a small child in the train station. He felt the ocean's rough waves batter him back and forth. The Thames flowed backwards and transformed into the River Styx. Matthew looked up into the bleak sky to see a circling albatross hiding between the dark clouds. Suddenly an anchor appeared and moored the wooden boat into calmer water, Matthew looked out onto the deck for the first time. The boat was now harbored safely. In the distance he saw another boat drop anchor next to his own. The sun was shining and he could feel the warmth reach out and grasp him securely. He could just barely make out the writing on the side of the boat – it was a name, and he read it out loud, whispering the word reverently.

_MARY._

* * *

The next chapter of_ First Steps_ in August finds Matthew reflecting on William Mason. He remembers celebrating William's last birthday together in France before the battle of Amiens. While in the cemetery he meets an expected visitor who has also come to pay her respects.

Thanks for reading!


	5. August

Chapter Four of _First Steps_ finds Matthew reflecting on William Mason. He remembers celebrating William's last birthday together in France before the battle of Amiens. While in the cemetery he meets an expected visitor who has also come to pay her respects. Once again I'm a broken record of thanks for R. Grace's never flagging support in this odyssey.

* * *

**First Steps - August**

Matthew stood in the cemetery in an increasingly irritable mood. There a fair breeze in the air; the sun was bright and cheerful, but not too hot for a day in early August. Gingerly, he bent down and placed the poppies he had brought to lay on William Mason's grave. He had meant to visit William yesterday, as that was his actual birthday, but he had forgotten. He had _forgotten_. The words made his eyes burn as he crouched low to the ground, hoping there wasn't anybody around that would notice if he rubbed his eyes. He had missed William's wedding, he had missed William's funeral, and now he had missed his birthday. While two out of these three events he had no choice but to miss, the last he did and he had failed for no good reason.

Matthew remembered spending William's birthday with him last year. _Last year_. How strange it was to recall it so fondly when they had been in the midst of such complete chaos and uncertainly - when rations were running out and another battle was forthcoming. But, they had taken nothing for granted then, it seems, like he did now. Yesterday had even been Sunday and he had been home at Crawley House all day. He had attended church with his mother; he had read two newspapers and re-read a book of William Blake's Poems. After dinner, he had gone to bed early to be ready for the next day of work. Feeling useful in his occupation was a consistently pleasant sensation about his daily existence.

There was no dramatic reasoning or intervening circumstances that had prevented him from visiting William's grave. It had been a peaceful day at Crawley House. But by nightfall he had grown anxious and had tossed and turned in his sleep. Matthew felt the nightmares, but he couldn't remember anything when he awoke suddenly. A part of him was grateful that the information was withheld, another part frustrated that the facts would not present themselves. A fog of intangible stupor lingered, clouding his judgment. For what could he achieve without facts? So he sat in the kitchen in the early hours of the morning before even Mrs. Bird was awake, nursing a warm glass of milk to which he had added a thimble of whiskey. Something had escaped from his mind; he knew that much.

His mother had pestered him about his puffy eyes and his less than cordial morning demeanor. She was compassionate as always, but, somehow, her demeanor made the nagging in his mind expand rather than contract. And for just a fleeting moment he wanted to tell her, wanted to ask her for help. But what help did he require? It was absurd. Besides, he had passed the Rubicon; he was alone with the choices he had made and he would live alone with the consequences.

When he entered his office, shed his jacket, and sat down at his desk, it hit him like a sucker punch to the gut. He saw the note he had written placed just next to his favorite fountain pen - the last gift he had ever received from his father. It was one of his most treasured processions, and he was horrified he had left it abandoned on his desk. He fingered the pen while staring bleakly at the note.

The notation read: _Sunday August 5th, William Mason's birthday_.

* * *

Crouching somewhat unsteadily by William's grave, Matthew felt his posture was less than dignified. He felt an unworthy recipient of the sacrifices that had occurred in France. The sense of circumstances being beyond his control did little to lessen the cowardice that still lingered in his aching soul. He loathed his own self-reprehension and he hated being the architect of his own misery, but he could not forgive or forget. Regret was inevitable. Still, he wished for salvation from his own churning conscience. But he had no power to stop his inner turmoil. Squatting as he was by William's grave his posture seemed to mirror his crumpled mind. At least he was grateful he remembered last year. He remembered, suddenly, that the current weather now held consistent with his memories of last year, and Matthew let his mind drift backwards.

It had been a Saturday - not that days spent in the trenches needed a label; they were all the same. Seven identical twins repeated over and over. Matthew knew that a key factor in the final plan for Amiens was secrecy, but it was hard to whisper in a trench without being overheard. The final orders had not been drafted yet.

But that was in the future still, and Matthew tried to live only in the present. So, he tapped Wakefield awake to take over the post. He then informed his soldier that he and Mason would be out-of-pocket for a bare minimum of two hours. He could trust Wakefield in his absence. Matthew had to briskly order Mason to hurry up for the patrol they were heading out on.

"Recognizance work never waits, after all," he barked.

He may not have a decent poker face, but he could play the role of superior officer. Walking east towards the city of Amiens was easy as they only needed to follow the river Somme. The farm fields were lush, having not been harvested due to the havoc all around them. Their destination was a clearing by the river bank where he had hidden William's secret birthday present.

Matthew was rather proud of himself for accomplishing this. He had listened to William rattle ceaselessly on about his life growing up on the farm. The farm and Daisy were all the young man liked to talk about, and that suited Matthew just fine. It took his mind off of other things he had left behind at home. He could not imagine bearing so much as openly as William did. Matthew had been glad to learn of his birthday to express what a fine batman William had become to him. Robert's suggestion was still a miraculous solution. Matthew was grateful he had intervened to put them together; he was more than a friendly face from Downton. No, he appreciated it because his batman maintained a positive outlook. William motivated him to constantly improve conditions for his soldiers wherever he could. It was actually very simple: William Mason was just an all around good chap.

William had no literature to quote or philosophy that wasn't his own. He knew of three things: his life on the farm, some Bible verse, and his love for Daisy. This was more than enough to make him a fitting companion to Matthew. Especially since literature was disbursed so regularly throughout his own mind. Whenever he had a second to himself, he used the peace to think and reflect on words that had always brought him comfort. He had even cast William as poet William Wordsworth's happy warrior.

_Who is the happy warrior? Who is he that every man in arms should wish to be?_

Matthew had to suppress a smile at his batman walking along side him. The poetic description was always something that privately amused him.

So, as his captain, he continued his charade, leading William through the tall grass along the Somme. He watched for the markers he had left; a moss covered hollow log concealed his treasure. By it, he had left three large flat stones.

"Let's take a look at the river," Matthew commanded, and, of course, William followed him. As they made their way down the bank, Matthew was almost giddy with anticipation.

"I want all your attention, Mason. Focus!" he ordered. Matthew stopped in his tracks and pointed, directing his batman's concentration, trying not to grin as he barked his next observation.

"Is that a weapon in that log?" he asked. William instantly knelt and crept towards the object. Without hesitation, he reached his hand into the long, hollow piece of wood.

"No, Captain," he said stunned as he pulled the item out of the log. "It appears to be a fishing pole." He held the item in his hands, starting at it with profound confusion.

"Well, then... happy birthday, _William_," Matthew said with a genuine smile finally being allowed to creep across his tired face.

So they sat by the river, and William fished while Matthew watched. It reminded Matthew of growing up in Manchester. He had often fished in Heaton Park with his father, and he had not been fishing since his death. So, it was significant to him to watch William now peacefully holding the pole and waiting. Matthew had to smile at the predictable patterns of his younger companion. William asked him dozens of differently worded questions which all had the same conclusion: how had he acquired the pole? Matthew simply smiled and pulled rank, never revealing his source of a local shopkeeper he had met and struck a deal with. Pity to take the glamour out of the surprise for William.

"It still feels strange to not spend my birthday with my parents," William said. "Its like any holiday without them, it's just rather odd. Though I am grateful my father sent me a letter by express post which arrived in time. It had a new comb in it," William continued to chat about the news from the farm and Mathew continued to listen.

"Can I ask you a question, sir?" Having finally exhausted the news from home, he turned to look earnestly at Matthew.

"Yes," Matthew responded rather hesitantly. William could be next ranting about love, his engagement to Daisy, and how long separation only makes the heart grow fonder, and did Matthew believe that? So he braced himself, and, with a nod of his head, showed his consent for William to continue.

"Well, my Mum is dead, maybe you know that," William started. He pulled the fishing pole out of the water. As expected, he had yet to catch anything.

Matthew suppressed his annoyance at William's comment. _Of course I know that_, he wanted to say. _You talk about your mother constantly_. Instead, he only exchanged a brief look with his companion. He hoped it would be enough to encourage him to continue, for whatever was on his mind certainly seemed to carry a lot of weight.

"Well, I suppose," William said his voice quieter than before, "What I want to know about you, sir, is... it must get easier right? You are older than me, and you don't rattle on about your father being gone. So, it must…I just need to know that..." his words trailed off, and a sudden awkward silence lingered between them.

Matthew had not been expecting such a question, and the look on his face must have shown it. He was, after all, a terrible poker player, as his men frequently reminded him.

"I beg your pardon, _sir_," William's speech was rushed and apologetic. He retreated back into rank his tone as emptied of emotion as was possible for his batman.

Matthew was not offended, but he was deeply affected by the question. It touched him that William would seek comfort from what he had observed of his own demeanor. Matthew had always hoped he could instill in his soldiers that he appreciated them. The truth was, he had a secret weapon for how he tried to maintain his courage. It was a resurrected childhood trick his father had taught him to conquer his fears, and he now used it when dealing with life in the trenches. So, even though he didn't think of his father directly, he was always in his thoughts. When, as a little boy, he had been afraid, his father taught him to recite poetry. The poem they had used the most was William Blake's _Tiger_. When Matthew was prowling through the trenches, he took a hold of his fear through this technique and imagined that he was the Tiger - that he would always be _burning bright against the forest of the night_. Perhaps it was silly but it helped him fortify himself. Between his father's trick and Mary's dog, he felt somewhat protected at all times.

"I'm really sorry, _sir_." William's gloomy voice broke his reverie. His observation had been spot on, as Matthew had never mentioned his father - _Papa,_ as he had always called him, even when he was a man of sixteen and left home for university. He was still Papa, and then he had died and he was frozen in time.

"Captain, I don't know where that question came from, but it was wrong of me to ask. You've just been so kind to me. I'm sorry if I spoiled the mood," his tone earnest but almost desperate to Matthew's ears.

"_William_," Matthew said, finally finding his voice. If circumstances had been different, he might have had a little brother like this young man. They were both only children; it was a bond they had never spoken of. When he had told Robert he couldn't protect William, he had felt a flicker of frustration rise inside him. He struggled with the notion that Robert was also trying to protect him. It was a meaningless struggle; nobody was safe; status did not alter anything. But everybody longed to protect _their_ soldier at the front. Matthew leaned forward and gently placed his hand on his young soldier's shoulder.

"There is no need to apologize _to me_," he said while staring at the sky. The cerulean blue of the water matched the sky in color, even the clouds gave the illusion of being like the foam of the river current streaming by. The landscape all around them was utterly beautiful, fixed in time outside of reality. Matthew could only take it in moment to moment, knowing that they would soon have to return to the trenches.

"At ease, William," he said gently, seeing that William did slightly relax, though his fingers still clutched lightly at his new present. Matthew squeezed his shoulder encouragingly before he removed his hand.

"I suppose that... it does get easier," Matthew began, taking a deep breath. He picked some grass and tried to use it to whistle as he had when he was a boy. Suddenly, it seemed appropriate to relive moments from long ago. Why not complete the illusion while they still could? But it made no sound as Matthew tried to force it - maybe because it was French grass and he had only used English grass before. Or perhaps there was a reason memories couldn't be duplicated.

"Eventually, the pain does retreat so that it's not a constant pressure, and...well, you've met my mother," Matthew said, finally looking at William, letting out a slight nervous chuckle to break the tension. He took another deep breath of the fresh, country air, relishing the simple pleasure.

"My mother didn't wallow when my father died, though I know the grief affected her…so I tried not to either," Mathew said.

"My father..." He swallowed and commanded his voice to not sound pathetic to his companion. "My father died of a sudden heart ailment. He just disappeared from my life with no warning," Matthew felt his face burn; it wasn't the hot sun, but the memory that scorched him. He continued, however, to stare at the sky defiantly.

"I never got to say goodbye, and it hurt in every square inch of my heart, body, and mind." Matthew leaned forward, his hands propped nervously on his knees. He hardly ever talked with anyone about his father's death. Now was hardly the proper time, but it still felt necessary to continue his thoughts, especially if it would help his young friend who needed a bit of guidance and reassurance.

"Oh," William responded, his tone quiet, but stronger than before. "I hurt that much, too."

Matthew looked at his batman and saw his eyes were fixed, once again, on the river.

"Except," William added suddenly, "I got to say goodbye to my mum. Lady Mary..." he started to explain but Matthew couldn't help but interrupt, confused as to how Mary was connected to William's story.

"Mary?" Matthew said sharply. "She….." his voice dropped off in confusion, and he stopped himself, feeling rather aghast not just at learning about Mary's kindness to William, but at his rude disturbance of the conversation.

"Yes, sir," William answered solemnly, looking at his captain for approval before he continued. Hesitantly, he spoke again.

"Well, Lady Mary is the one that told me I should go see my mum. If she hadn't told me…. I might not have seen her in time…." William's voice hitched, and the words were left hanging in the pleasant breeze around them. Matthew glanced at him sympathetically, as he was equally moved when he thought about that scenario. Mary had such compassion. She….His eyes meet William's small grin and realized he had been caught in his own daydream and had missed the rest of their conversation. So, he cocked his head in what he hoped was a dignified manner and nodded for him to repeat whatever he had just shared.

"I said, '_thank you, sir_,'" William repeated. The affection still ripe in his voice.

Matthew truly felt like he should be the one thanking the younger man. William was always ready to share his hopeful spirit, and his decadent optimism constantly buoyed him. Matthew felt a strange sense of peace in that moment, despite all the nervous anxiety between them for their past sorrows and their uncertain futures.

"You're quite welcome William," Matthew said quietly. He suddenly felt compelled to lean back and recline on the grass by the river. Matthew closed his eyes and enjoyed the warm sun. He could hear the babble of the Somme as William once again lifted his new fishing pole and cast out into the water.

* * *

Suddenly, a pricking pain spread through Matthew's legs from squatting by William's grave. How long he had been in this position, he didn't know. He put his hand on the head stone, both for the connection to his sinking emotions and the necessary assistance against gravity he needed to stand. It was as though his once deadened legs wanted to pay their own tribute to the man that had saved his life.

"Happy birthday, William," was then said, but it wasn't his voice and he couldn't possibly be so sleep-deprived that he was hearing a ghost.

Matthew turned then and saw Lady Mary. She was wearing a simple blue summer dress trimmed with lace. On her hat was pinned a single poppy. The sight of Mary made his red eyes itch again with tears. He removed his hat to tip it at her and then quickly rubbed away the offending substance.

His mind seemed to scream at her interruption. _Not now, not here, not again_!

"Your mother told me you were here," he heard Mary say. Building up his courage, he looked at her again. When he dared a glance in her direction, he saw she had two bouquets of flowers in her arms. Matthew tried to swallow the lump in his throat, but it felt like an entire bird's nest had lodged there.

"I had come to invite you both to dinner at the Abbey, but I'm afraid since then I've stole these from Crawley House's gardens," she explained, gesturing to the bouquets.

Matthew stared at her dumbly, his mouth unable to form words. He was mortified by his lack of composure in front of her; he had no choice but to remain silent. If he spoke, he didn't know what would spill from his lips. If he was quiet, she would have to continue to speak and after a moment. He was granted his wish.

"In my defense," Mary continued, "it was your mother who most graciously offered the flowers."

A small, cautious smile started to brighten her face. _Yes_, he thought, _mother would do that._

"She even suggested the poppy for my hat."

Matthew had to do something or he felt he would burst, so he laughed. It started as a bubble of tiny shards of amusement and quickly became something more, a deeper belly laugh...born of nervous energy, he supposed. How strange it was to mix sadness with laughter, and yet it felt completely natural.

Mary's smile grew at his laughter, and he felt the constriction in his throat lesson. Speech was now within the realm of possibility, so he tried. He cleared his throat and tentatively spoke.

"That does sound like my mother," he said wistfully. He put a hand through his hair as a sudden gust of wind seemed to catch him off guard, his hat still awkwardly held to his side.

"Yes," Mary said, still cheerily. "She was quite particular about which kind of flowers I should take to join you," she continued, her tone bemused. Her voice was calm as she rattled on, chatting as if she was describing a soufflé at a dinner party. Matthew just focused on rebuilding his composure, taking deep, even breaths.

"So, I have daffodils, which symbolize regard and chivalry. They're indicative of rebirth, new beginnings, and eternal life. And I have hydrangeas to symbolize heartfelt emotions. They can be offered to express gratitude for being understood."

"That sounds rather old-fashioned, if you ask me," Matthew said, staring at the bouquet as it found its new home propped against William's head stone, Mary's hands delicately fussing with it.

"Well, that is just what I am told. Take it up with your Mother if you don't believe me," Mary responded light-heartedly. The dare in her voice prodded Matthew, his tongue loosened, his throat no longer so constricted and sore. He still felt raw, but no longer exposed.

"Maybe I will," Matthew said, feeling something having released inside him, a part of the heavy weight he had been carrying. He _almost_ felt like teasing Mary when he thought of the image of her in the garden with his Mother, being lectured about flowers and their symbolism. It made him want to chuckle again, to relive the moment of his earlier laugh, but he didn't - he couldn't. Not yet. There was so much on his mind that he had to focus on; he couldn't give in to every merry thought, after all.

"Aren't you forgetting something?" Matthew asked, pointing at the flowers she still held. "What does that bouquet symbolize?" He hoped his voice was no longer a croak from his earlier emotional moment. He didn't mean the questions to be so accusatory. And for a brief moment he was afraid that he had offended her. He bit his lip and dropped his eyes to William's grave.

"This bouquet is not for William," Mary explained, cradling it in her arms. Matthew looked up at her tentatively. She held the bouquet the way a mother holds a baby, so natural and delicate was her gentle embrace. But he instantly berated himself for such a notion. It was very improper.

"I don't understand," Matthew said quickly, feeling his pulse quicken as anxiety took a hold of him. He felt panic was being pumped through his pounding heart rather than blood.

_Please don't do this to me_ he thought; _I just can't bear it now. Enough is enough. Stop! _

He told his churning mind; _don't let the anxiety show, not to her. Never to her, never again._

"They look like they are also from Crawley house." Matthew hoped his tone sounded good-natured despite his tense feelings. He didn't want her to feel he was criticizing her; he had no right to do such a thing, after all. However his thoughts had been just slinging him back and forth ruthlessly to and from France. And now when he thought of William, he thought also of Mary. Of her kindness to both of them, without any expectations of being rewarded. A taunting sing-song rhyme bouncing in his head...and all the kings' horses and all the kings' men….his mood was impossibly fragile.

_Why Mary? Please_. _Enough already. You know the power you have over me!_

But even these horrid memories mixed with relief and gratitude were not enough for him to avoid having to ponder the obvious: that he was alone once again with Mary in the cemetery. Matthew felt a tremor invade his body. Her voice cut through his inner musings.

"I came to pay my respects to William, yes. He was so kind. I remember the way he used to always check on the horses despite all his other duties when he became a footman. I have many other reasons to be indebted to him; I won't list them all. But, suffice it to say, William was a special person and I am grateful for everything he did."

Mary's voice was so even and tranquil, so unlike his in emotional situations, Matthew thought.

There was a long enough pause that Matthew briefly had to look at Mary, if only for a second. He had insisted to his Mother that he wanted to be alone in the cemetery, that he did not need company for his visiting William's grave. But, now he accepted what a fool he had been. This was not something he should have attempted to do alone. Mother had said it did no good to tarnish the future with regrets about the past, and she was right. He was grateful that his mother had sent Mary to join him somehow. Despite the raw wounds he still felt between them, it was the right thing to do. He did believe Mary's words about William. Of course she had cared for him; she had known him longer then he had, after all. He closed his eyes for a minute, deep in thought, sending a silent prayer to the heavens.

"But," Mary began, but her voice faltered and then she stopped, seemingly emotional herself.

"But?" Matthew asked, tentatively opening his eyes. Just like William when compared to him, she was the strong one of the pair. And he didn't like seeing Mary so upset.

Her composure being restored after another pause, she continued. "But...these pink roses symbolize friendship, and they are for Lavinia."

Matthew almost dropped his hat, his hold on it loosening from the shock of her statement. Suddenly, everything about flowers was true; everything his mother had told Mary had to be true. She was always right after all. How could he have doubted either of them? Even if it had only been in jest.

_Bless Mother for her interfering. _

_And bless Mary for having the courage to come join me, _he thought_._

An overwhelming flood of hope crashed through the gates of Matthew's heart. He took a small step closer to where she stood, closing some of the distance between them. He looked at the flowers and thought of Lavinia. She would have loved them; they were perfect for her. When his eyes started to slightly mist he didn't mind if she saw it anymore. _The flowers were for Lavinia_. He stared at the delicate pink buds in the bouquet, humbled by her words and by her good deed.

"Thank you, Mary," Matthew said his tongue feeling like it was stumbling over the words. It wasn't enough but it was all he could manage. "Truly," he said solemnly. He made eye contact with her for a just a minute until he had to look away. It was safer to stare at the pink roses. They were exceptionally beautiful this year, thanks to Mr. Mosley's efforts. When Matthew dared to look at Mary again, this time he no longer felt so broken. She smiled gently at him. It was a transcendent moment to be alive, and he was suddenly grateful, rather than remorseful or guilty. He was grateful. Her eyes were misty as well. He fond himself smiling shyly back at Mary.

"You're welcome, Matthew," she said while holding his gaze, a small twinkle in her eyes.

"_It must get easier right?" _William's question no longer haunted him, it comforted him.

_Dear William_, he thought fondly. _Yes, it does get easier,_ he thought as he once again sheepishly stole a glance at Mary's regal pose holding the pink roses.

"Shall we?" He asked Mary, gesturing to Lavinia's grave. It was only a short walk up the small incline in the cemetery from William's plot. Matthew placed his hat on his head and then, on impulse, extended his arm to Mary. She had already wrapped her arm around his without delay before he could change his mind. Matthew bit his lip at the contact. It felt so natural. It felt so right. He kept his gaze focused ahead as they walked.

He had the answer to William's question spinning in his head.

_It does get easier_.

* * *

Authors Note: On my tumblr account –**wdedalus**- I will have pictures that inspired parts of this story.

Check it out if you are curious!

*preview*

In** September** Matthew is waiting for Robert, and as he waits and the time delay increases, he is faced with memories regarding his father's death. What did happen to Dr. Reginald Crawley? Prepare to find out next chapter!

Thanks for reading!


	6. September

The next chapter of _First Steps_ finds Matthew waiting for Robert, and while doing so, ruminating on his father's death and his future at Downton. Dedicated to R. Grace, who inspired me to explore the topics I've mentioned in this chapter.

* * *

**First Steps - September**

Matthew enjoyed spending time with Robert, but sometimes he had to wait for the privilege. Robert did not have to be very punctual because everyone would always wait for the Earl of Grantham. Matthew had to confess that today this behavior had him annoyed. He had been waiting for an hour, and he wasn't sure why he was being forced to wait. Matthew couldn't be sure if he was feeling nervous, bored or impatient. With no knowledge as to why the delay was occurring, he could attribute no specific emotion to it. However, he knew that whatever he was feeling was currently triggering unpleasant memories of his past.

As Matthew looked at the books in Robert's collection, he couldn't help but compare Downton's library to that of his father's in Manchester. The two libraries were very different places, yet they contained so many of the same books. Waiting for Robert had released memories he had thought he had suppressed: memories of what he had been doing when his mother told him the news that had changed his life forever.

He had been reading the novel_ Frankenstein_ in his father's library. It was the Christmas season, and he was eager for his father to return from the hospital. Matthew had been a bit anxious that his father would reprimand him for having been a day later than he had originally planned, but he was ready to defend himself. It wasn't that he had wished to delay; he had to make that clear. But his law studies had detained him from leaving Oxford. Therefore, Matthew was nervous as he approached the home he had grown up in. His mother had brushed off any lingering doubts about his homecoming. She had immediately greeted him affectionately, kissing him on the check before he could even remove his coat. She had ushered him in, chatting about local news and events in Manchester. Soon, Mrs. Bird appeared with tea and cakes. It all was marvelously comforting.

Since his mother had some shopping to do, she was going to met his father at the hospital and they would walk back home together. Matthew was left to entertain himself. To pass the time, he had picked up Frankenstein; it was a shared favorite novel between father and son. His father had read it aloud to him many times when he was a boy. Matthew was enraptured by the words on the pages of his book; they seemed to understand him so completely.

"_I could hardly sustain the multitude of feelings that crowded my mind." _

He had so much to tell his papa, for he had missed him so much at university, and he hoped his father wasn't still hurt that he had chosen to study the law rather than medicine. Matthew needed to see his papa to reassure him that he was content with this choice. He had known while still a young boy he did not want to be a doctor, though he did want to be just like his father. He worried that his papa didn't understand this distinction.

The grandfather clock in the sitting room ticked away the hours, but his parents had not come home. Matthew did not worry too much because they often became caught up in affairs at the hospital. His papa would never leave until he had adequately done his duty, and his mother also liked to show her commitment to nursing. When he thought of his parents, he was always proud to be their son, though he had to chuckle fondly at some of their idiosyncrasies, especially his father's. Sitting in the library, Matthew could faintly smell the cigars he kept in his humidor. He chuckled about how much his father hated bow ties. Matthew also remembered the way his father loved to describe the movements of birds and insects. Suddenly, Matthew missed him terribly. He had his reunion with his mother, and now he was waiting for his father.

* * *

Matthew huffed in frustration as he waited, trapped in the library at Downton. The last photo of himself with his mother and father was presented proudly on the desk in front of him, but, he could not understand how it got there. Once, it had sat on a shelf in his father's library, but no more. When he had left Crawley House earlier that morning, it had been in its usual place on the fireplace mantel. He didn't, he couldn't, understand.

Squeezing his eyes tightly shut, Matthew gave in, once again, to the memory of waiting for his father to come home. He hated that memory, yet he couldn't stop it from reappearing. Where was Robert? Waiting was now impossibly frustrating. The time blurred between then and now. _If something has happened,_ he thought nervously, _my life will have to change again… _Matthew swallowed down the fear of that thought and gave in to his memories. It was easier than waiting and worrying, after all.

He heard the door open at last, but, when he looked up from pretending he had been engaged in his book, he knew that something was horribly wrong. Matthew had rarely ever seen his mother cry, but she was weeping hysterically as she entered the library. The sight made him drop _Frankenstein_ and run hastily to her side, afraid she would fall without some assistance.

"Mother?" he said, his voice panicked at seeing her utter lack of composure. He hugged her and felt his own eyes watering just at seeing her so distraught.

"Mother?" he asked again softly, his voice breaking. A part of him didn't want to know what could possibly have upset her so profoundly. She was the strongest person he had ever known. He bit his lip between his teeth, sucking in a shuddering breath. Why was she alone? She was never alone.

"_Mother_," he said for the third time, his eyes shutting tightly against the fear rising inside him. It was no longer a question - it was a plea. And he _knew_ it. Her sobs where breaking his heart. There had to be an explanation. But did he want to hear it? Could he bear to hear it?

"What's wrong?"

When the words finally poured out of him, he was sniffling, as he had given in to crying, holding his mother. Then he felt her squeeze him back for the first time. Her touch was as comforting as it had always been.

"Matthew," she said her voice quivering. "Our darling boy," but she said no more as her tears overcame her again. For how long there was silence between them, Matthew didn't know. He heard the ticking of the grandfather clock, but he felt no measure of time. He felt nothing.

"I'm so sorry, darling," his mother finally said, clutching him in a tight embrace. "So sorry…"

"Mother," he answered her, not knowing what else, if anything, he could say at the moment. No matter the emotional situation, he could always get that word out. He felt her embrace tighten as she spoke again.

"Your papa is dead. It happen so suddenly...It was his heart… He….he is gone…" One of her hands was around his waist, and the other reached up around his neck. She kissed him lightly, turning her wet face onto his cheek. Matthew remembered the feeling of that kiss, an act born of such determinate love in the face of such grief. He concentrated on the gesture rather than her words, which were an enigma to him, lost in a far-off place happening to anybody but him.

"No," Matthew felt the single word escape from his lips. His mother continued speaking, and, despite the emotion in her voice, her words were unmistakable.

"We were about to leave. He had just left to collect his coat when he collapsed … your sweet father. Oh my dear Reginald!"

His mother's strong voice cracked as she continued to weep. Matthew thought it all rather unbelievable; his mother always noticed everything, and his father could help anyone. But his Mother hadn't been aware, and his father couldn't help himself. Matthew closed his eyes and thought of Victor Frankenstein. A newly fashioned appreciation erupted in him; he would do anything to bring his papa back. But they would never share another moment together. His father would never know anything he had wanted to tell him. And never was a very long time. He closed his eyes and saw his papa's face. He wasn't dead. He couldn't be. As long as he kept eyes closed, his father was alive.

Matthew felt his mother take a hallow breath as her tears continued to spill freely. He realized that, being pressed against her, he was becoming cold, wet, and miserable. She was still wearing her coat, and it must have started snowing. He felt the condensation penetrating his clothing, but he did not dare break from her arms. And he could not open his eyes. His mother was quiet and seemed to have nothing more to say. It scared him that she was speechless, more so than that his father was dead. He didn't believe what she had said, anyway. He couldn't believe her, even if she had never lied to him. He wanted to scream that one word, that one tiny word, he could still say.

"_NO!"_

But nothing happened. Matthew felt fresh tears roll down his face and couldn't stop a series of whimpers from escaping as he cried in his mother's arms.

"_Mother_," he found was the only word that could be produced. But from this word, his tongued loosened. He felt a rush of anger and bitterness. He didn't believe her vile words. Matthew felt a rush of hatred well up inside him, then falter and incinerate in the pit of his churning stomach.

"_Papa_…" he then cried as if it was a prayer, a plea - or worse, an acknowledgement of whom he had lost. His mother hushed and cooed at him but said no further words through her own tears. Matthew had never known pain this great. No, there was nothing quite like the current sensation of pain that numbed his body while still flooded his heart with agony.

"_Papa,"_ he whimpered again desperately. Matthew remembered listening in horror to grim details his father had told him once about how he had been born. The labor and delivery had almost killed his mother. His father told him this story so he would never take anything for granted, he had said, so he would appreciate the smaller moments in life. And then he had opened his arms and Matthew had stepped into them.

_With both of you_, his father had said, embracing him fondly, _I have everything_.

Each breath of air he took never seemed to be enough to fill his strangled lungs.

Matthew found himself whispering, "I was supposed to come yesterday…" He cried desperately into his mother's arms but it came out barely above a squeak, he was so bereft. His mother's voice found potency, and she spoke with resolve.

"Don't do that, my darling boy." Her strong arms squeezed him fiercely, but he only cried more at hearing the unflagging force of her voice. How she could be pulling herself together despite her own shattering grief was beyond him.

"Darling, it was not your fault." His mother took a deep breath, though her tears continued to flow; he could feel them wetting his shirt collar.

"If anyone should have seen the signs, it was me, _and I missed them_," she paused. "Matthew," she said his name gently, as she had when he was a boy, and he felt ashamed that he wanted to regress to his childhood again. He wished he could escape to any moment but the current one he was trapped in.

"Papa would _not_ want you to blame yourself," she said soothingly. Her voice was strong, though it was dredged with emotion. "So you must promise me you won't ever do that."

He trembled in his Mother's embrace. His father was dead. He had been abandoned. There was silence between them until she spoke again.

"Darling," she said, her soft volume rising. She commanded him, shaking him as she spoke, "_Matthew, promise me_!"

It jolted him unpleasantly, the tandem shaking of her voice and her body. He dropped his head further into the curve of his mother's embrace before he nodded against her. He had no choice. A faint whisper through his own tears was all he could manage.

"I do," his voice faltered, "promise, Mother." He hiccupped as the tears continued to choke him, his eyes still pinched shut.

"But," he swallowed and sniffled through his tears, "it isn't fair," he said through gritted teeth as he hiccupped again.

"No, it isn't, darling," she said affectionately. Her arm extended to brush her fingers over the top of his head and caress his hair.

"We will _both_ have to remember your father," her usual steady voice quivered before she struggled on, "as the wonderful man that he was, and then we can get through this together." Matthew felt something break inside him. She really did notice everything, and his father's death could not have been prevented. But that didn't stop the pain he felt, the injustice of the situation. So, he continued to whimper like a child against his mother's shoulder. Knowing that his father would never now know him as a man. It was okay to surrender and be a boy again.

* * *

Matthew looked at the copy of _Frankenstein_ on Robert's shelf with disgust. He wanted to spit on it for the vile memory of his father's death. _You died too soon. I was too late. None of it was fair. And I have never been able to keep my promise to mother. I am a failure._ A line from Frankenstein sprung into Matthew's mind.

"_Nothing __is so painful to the human mind as a great and sudden change._"

Where was Robert? It was foolish to be so maudlin, so caught up in the grip of something he couldn't change, something that had happened so long ago. Something he had promised he would not dwell on. He had tried to be a man that stood by his promises, but, sadly, he had proven a disappointment with this construction of his character. He was not a man his father would be proud of. Matthew had betrayed everyone he loved in small ways. And now all his actions had multiplied into actual sins and he was reaping what he had sown. He was cursed.

These feelings of frustration spread inside him. It was uncouth to be so out of sorts, over such a small inconvenience. Patience was a virtue after all. Matthew tried to reframe his mind. He should be grateful for all of his good fortune, especially his health having returned to him. Last year, he wouldn't have been standing here waiting; he wouldn't be standing at all. Yes, he was feeling vexation now, but he could walk out of this library if he wanted to; he could walk anywhere he wanted to. He flexed his fingers, griping his stick, and looked at his feet. His stick was in his hands? He hadn't used his stick in months. Matthew closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Opening his eyes, he realized he must have imagined the feeling of his stick in his hands, for it was no longer present. The stick was a phantom comfort to him, it seemed. To calm himself, he walked along the bookshelves, enjoying the simple task. Walking away from _Frankenstein_ was utterly necessary.

Matthew's hand released its grip on his stick (it was back again, suddenly) to touch the spine of another book that caught his attention. His fingers suddenly reached out for _Nicholas Nickleby_, his favorite Dickens novel. A boy forced to make his way in the world following his father's death. He clutched the book, gently tracing the volume's spine where there was a small rip in the binding. It would need mending. Suddenly, the large, wooden door of the Abbey library was flung open, and Matthew gasped at the interruption having broken his solitary reflection. A little boy was the intruder. The child started to approach him.

"Oh, hello," he said. "Are you waiting too?"

Matthew observed the little boy, who wore a trouser suit with a bow tie, and smiled. His messy blond hair was sticking out at all angles from underneath the cap on his head. And his eyes, the little boy's eyes, they reminded him of his father's eyes. Impossible and absurd, Matthew reprimanded himself. Trying to focus - he must not alarm the child after all - Matthew turned his attention back to where it belonged.

"Yes, I am waiting too," Matthew said, answering the boy's question before posing one of his own, his curiosity growing.

"Are you sure you are supposed to be in here?" He didn't want the little boy in trouble if he could prevent it.

"I'm waiting for my father," the little boy said, walking over towards the windows rather than the bookshelves. He seemed to be staring at a bluebird swooping by. Matthew felt a sudden chill within himself. The anxiety he had felt moments ago was fading. The boy seemed so carefree and happy, it almost inspired Matthew. He thought wistfully of his own boyhood. Matthew took a step closer towards the child, because the boy's eyes troubled him. As he stared, the color changed suddenly. They were now toffee brown - a very familiar shade. The boy's eyes twinkled like two brown stars set against the blue night sky, the colors combining to make something perfect. He had to continue to solicit information from the dear child.

"Who is your father?" Matthew asked softly. He felt like sitting down and offering the boy his knee to perch on while they continued to talk. Matthew thought of his own father, but this triggered no reaction of pain within him anymore, not when he was looking at the little boy in front of him. The sensation was odd considering how wracked with anguish he had been mere moments ago.

"_You are_," the little boy said looking at him with bewilderment and then added, "or, at least, you could be," he added with a giggle. The boy walked towards him, his small feet shuffling.

"I don't understand," Matthew said suddenly, wondering if this was some kind of trick that was being played on him. He turned his head, looking left and right, but there was nobody around except the dear little boy. Matthew did not feel anxious about the boy's statement, and this confused him. He should be denying it, after all; he was not, and never would be, a father.

"What is your name?" Matthew asked, trying a different, more direct approach to the child's games.

"Victor," the child said with obvious appreciation, proud of his given name. Matthew could understand that much, he had always liked his own name too.

"My name means 'one who concurs'," Victor said, his little hands twisting in front of him eagerly. "Do you like it?" he asked enthusiastically.

"I do." Matthew found himself answering the little boy's question without delay. Little Victor fascinated him no to end. He had never seen a more beautiful child.

"Who is your mother?" Matthew asked.

There was no point in denying the way the strange little boy's presence was affecting him. Victor seemed more patient then he was in this current predicament of waiting. _This little boy_, Matthew thought suddenly, _could be me. I was just like him once_. He tried not to shiver at this revelation.

"You don't know?" the little boy said, a taunting quality in his calm voice. He took another look at Matthew, smirking as he did so before he then ran out of the library.

"Wait," Matthew found himself calling after him. "Don't go!" he yelled after the child.

Suddenly, Mary appeared at the doorway, apologizing for the little boy's behavior of all absurd things. "I do beg your pardon, Mr. Crawley," she said politely. Why was she being so formal? They were on better terms than that, weren't they? Mary picked up his stick that Victor had knocked over when he ran out of the library and propped it up against the bookshelves. Matthew watched her movements as she seemed to fidget with his stick. Maybe it gave her comfort too.

"I hope Victor didn't disturb you. Carson said you were waiting. Papa shouldn't be long now. He is coming. I'm sorry you've been waiting for so long."

Matthew couldn't even close his gapping mouth at this turn of events. There were so many questions forming in his mind. He felt dazed, as though he had suffered a blow to the head. How did she know Victor? And why would she apologize for the dear little boy? Abruptly, Matthew felt his face flush when he looked up to meet her eyes. He realized how glamorous Mary was, standing in front of him dressed in a stunning evening gown. The garb she wore reminded him of a bridal dress made of light-colored silk. His eyes traveled, taking in how the beige material gathered at her hips with a sash to accent her trim figure. She had fresh lilies mixed throughout her hair and he could smell the floral aroma as she moved closer to him.

"Are you going somewhere?" Matthew asked her. He felt impatient for her answer, for some kind of explanation. With a playful smirk, Mary took the book he was holding - _Nicholas Nickleby_ - out of his hands. Their fingers touched briefly on the book's damaged spine. He felt a spark. Matthew found himself speaking the same words she was, words from Nicholas Nickleby himself.

"_See I can't save you. For I need saving too."_

He tried to look into her eyes, but she turned away. Victor's eyes had temporarily reflected the exact same shade of brown as Mary's. They were a perfect match, and that meant...

Matthew woke with a gasp. He took inventory of his surroundings, his eyes darting around his bedroom. He was at Crawley House. He had been dreaming. It was a nightmare and memories come to haunt him through the guise of sleep. Matthew stretched his tired body and pulled himself upright. The books _Frankenstein_ and _Nicholas Nickelby_ sat neatly next to each other on his bedside table. He reached for _Frankenstein _and flipped it open to where he had marked the last page he had read.

_"The beauty of the dream vanished, and breathless horror and disgust filled my heart."_

The words seemed to mock him. Matthew closed his eyes and heard his father's voice, so animated as he had read aloud this novel to him. He couldn't let that go, despite the pain. It was why he always came back, he supposed. He wasn't sure if he said it out loud, but he certainly thought to himself... _Papa._ Matthew set the book gently down on his table. He scrubbed his face vigorously with his hands before rubbing further at his eyes, slightly surprised to find tears still pooled on his face. Matthew felt twinges of paralysis, caught up in his memories turned into nightmares, and he almost fell out of bed as was he compelled to exit it immediately. He paced for several long minutes, staring at the books as he walked the length of his room.

* * *

Suddenly, Matthew grabbed his robe and pulled it over his pajamas. He then stuck his bare feet in his slippers, the simple motions giving him time to regain some measure of his composure. He checked his watch; it was still relatively early, before ten o'clock at night.

The dream had been so real. The sensations of waiting for Robert mixed with waiting for his father. Matthew bit his lip. He enjoyed Robert's company, and he had needed it most desperately in the last few months. He sighed. But then there were the more troubling aspects of his dream. Matthew felt his feet shuffle underneath him and thought of how the little boy walked. _Victor_, he thought bemused at the name. _"One who concurs"_. The details were still so fresh in his mind. And Mary had invaded his dreams wearing what looked like a bridal gown.

He placed his hand on the railing as the stairs creaked beneath him and blew out a stiff breath. Mary would be getting married soon, that much was true, but the dream wasn't real. It didn't mean anything.

"Matthew?" he heard his mother calling him. "Is that you, dear?"

"Yes, Mother," the words came so naturally, flowing from his rigid tongue easily. He took another deep breath.

"Come into the sitting room, if you like," she called from the bottom of the stairs. "I have a pot of tea, and there is still some of Mrs. Bird's cake."

Matthew had to smile, whatever had just happened to him, whatever that dream meant, he didn't care. None of it mattered. He would think no more of _Frankenstein_ or his father's death, and even less about strange little boy's named Victor, and no more, _absolutely no more, _about Mary. For now, all he wanted was the balm of a cup of tea and the rambunctiouschatter his mother was, no doubt, about to regale him with. _Yes_, he repeated to himself that_ is all I want - or, rather, all I deserve. _

"I'm coming," he answered as he walked down the stairs.

* * *

Authors note: Welcome to my head canon regarding Dr. Reginald Crawley's death. I have another story called "Love is worth the risk" which details Matthew's birth and his parent's love story. While it is not connected to these stories in _First Steps_, I did use aspects of it in this chapter for Matthew's memories.

***preview* Next chapter: In **_**October**_** Matthew will be suffering from two things a cold – and his feelings for Lady Mary. And he is in denial about both of them! **


	7. October

The next chapter of _First Step _finds Matthew suffering from two things: a cold – and his feelings for Mary.

And he is in denial about both of them!

Dedicated to R. Grace for all the wisdom she offered during the writing of this chapter.

* * *

** First Steps - October**

A flock of barnacle geese, along with their yapping cries, had appeared on the lawn of Downton Abbey. It was an especially chilly October morning but the pesky creatures had not yet departed on their migration. Matthew stood on the grounds with Robert who was speaking to the gamekeeper. The insistent noise of the geese was not helping the pounding in his head. Matthew felt a shiver travel the length of his body. He ached everywhere from the cold weather. His feet were numb and he shifted his weight back and forth to stimulate them. In his haste to depart Crawley House, he had also forgotten his gloves, so his hands were hidden in his wool overcoat pockets. Matthew watched Robert as he spoke, his attention not on Robert's words but on the elegantly wrapped scarf around his neck, which he was bitterly envious of. Robert, after all, seemed perfectly content to be outside.

For the past several days, Matthew had been successful in avoiding having to acknowledge his cold symptoms. There was no need to raise a fuss about the state of his health. He saw no reason to admit he was sick except that, perhaps, he could benefit from a day of rest. So, when his mother had insisted, he did not make the journey to Ripon. Reluctantly, he had agreed that his work could, in fact, wait. He telephoned Harvell and Carter immediately with this change in his schedule. When he finished his phone call, his mother's tenacious zeal was finally unavoidable. He presumed she was going to lecture him on having neglected his health and how he was now facing the consequences. As a grown man, he was not sure his current temperament could withstand such instructions.

"No, Mother," Matthew said sternly. He had to insist, even if his feelings were irrational. "I will not go to bed_._" He felt panic as he looked into his mother's eyes, her determined expression already set. How could he make her understand? He felt frustratingly powerless.

"I've had far too much of being an invalid already_,"_ the words crept out of his mouth just above a whisper. He had not expected to say as much, but it was unbearable to feel this bulging anxiety.

"Fair enough, dear," his mother had said sympathetically as she patted his arm. "I understand." Matthew sighed with relief at this small victory.

A short while later, Matthew's reclined posture was very relaxed in his favorite arm chair in the drawing room. He even allowed himself the luxury of elevating his feet on a footstool. But this was not an indication of his illness; it was only a preventive measure for his back. He was warm and comfortable by the fireplace, and he didn't care about other circumstances or judgments. No, he was far too tired for any of that nonsense. So, he sipped at his herbal tea to remove the vile taste of the linture concoction his mother had forced him to consume. While it had helped his sore throat, it was an utterly disgusting remedy. Most medicine was, after all. But it had convinced him that he felt newly restored. Yes, he felt completely vindicated. He was simply tired, not actually sick. Matthew felt jubilant at the prospect of having made such a quick recovery.

So, he'd seized upon the first opportunity of escape from the house, brushing off his mother's concern when Robert came to Crawley House. Matthew made the decision to accompany Robert out, so this was how he had escaped and was currently outside in the bitter cold watching two grown men discus geese. Matthew wouldn't say he regretted his departure from the warm sanctuary of Crawley House because his stubbornness was not ready to admit his mistake. What was done was done; he would just have to endure this minor inconvenience.

"It's easy to get lulled into a false sense of security regarding the weather. Mother Nature changes so quickly. Don't you agree Matthew?" Robert said, including him in this new shift in the conversation.

"The snowfall was unexpected," he answered, clearing his throat at the end of his short sentence. Each breath of the chilled air continued to burn his lungs. It was becoming almost impossible to conceal the urge to cough. But he was not sick, he kept telling himself. Robert nodded in agreement before resuming his conversation with the gamekeeper.

"This early cold snap will change the fall foliage," Robert observed astutely, taking in the panoramic view of the Downton lawn. The vibrant green grass held a frosting of white from the snow. It crunched as Matthew shifted on his unpleasantly cold feet again.

"Yes, my lord, everything around us looks pale this morning, the coloring not as it should be," the gamekeeper said. Matthew had seen him regularly since the estate tours he had done with Robert last June. He was not a man to be trifled with, for he seemed to have a practical impartiality to both man and animal. The gamekeeper was significantly older than Robert, a tall and stately elderly man. His large white eyebrows rose as though he dared Matthew to contradict him at this observation. What was he implying? Matthew felt as though he was an animal that had been lured into a trap. Sucking in a breath of surprise at this thought, Matthew's cough finally broke free. He could feel the stinging vibration spreading and bent forward stiffly. A harsh gust of wind nearly made him stumble in his prone state. But then he felt hands on his back bracing his weakened body. If not for the presence of the strong set of arms around him, Matthew thought he might even faint. Ruefully he conceded, _I suppose I am sick._

During the short car ride with Robert back to Crawley House, Matthew kept his eyes closed. They did not talk, and when he opened the door to Crawley House he was immediately greeted by his mother. Matthew cringed sheepishly as he struggled out his coat with Moseley's help. His mother and Robert immediately started talking about what had transpired. It was impossibly frustrating to be the object of so much gossip, so he excused himself. Matthew focused on the steps ahead of him rather than the words behind him. It had not been this horrendously hard to climb the stairs to his bedroom since his return to Crawley House last year. Matthew shuttered and his back ached at this painful memory. But he found the necessary energy to motivate himself forward.

Once in his dressing room, for the first time, perhaps, in their entire relationship, Moseley was not a hindrance. Matthew even allowed the sometimes-valet to assist him into bed where, when he turned down the blankets, he found a hot water bottle waiting for him. His mother must have anticipated his return and was prepared. Yawning and stretching contently in the warm bed, Matthew was glad to be home. When he noticed several small bottles of medicine in different colored jars lined up on his bureau, however, he felt very melancholy. What a fool he had been today. The tickle in his sore throat spread to his nose and he sneezed. He noticed a folded handkerchief on his bedside table and he reached for it eagerly as he felt his nose start to drip.

"Crikey," Matthew groaned in self-pity, feeling utterly exhausted. Suddenly, it seemed impossible to find a comfortable position that would ease the chills he felt. He thumped his head against the pillows and instantly regretted the action. He rubbed his forehead for several minutes to try to force the splitting headache, if not to cease, then at least to abate. He yawed and closed his eyes.

Matthew had no idea how much time passed, but, all of a sudden, he was awakening from a nap he hadn't known he'd succumb to. He stared vacantly about his room, feeling miserable that his doze had not cured him. In fact, he felt possibly more retched than before. When he cast his eyes on the bedside table, there were now several National Geographic magazines there. He promised himself he would thank his mother for this act of kindness on her part. Her efforts were very much appreciated.

Matthew had just pried open the cover of the new October edition when there was a knock on his bedroom door. Since Matthew had only anticipated his mother, he did not adjust his relaxed posture in bed. The new visitor was not his mother, but instead, Mary.

It was _Mary_! In his bedroom! It took Matthew's foggy brain a moment to process this revelation. How long had he desired for this to occur? Matthew thought the world a very cruel place. With more haste then his body or his throbbing head wanted to allow, he tried to sit up in a more dignified manor. He _might_ have moaned at the pain the movement caused, but if asked, he would never admit to it.

"Oh Matthew," Mary said, the words sounding to him just like his mother's, and that was quite a distasteful thought when Mary caused such a flutter in the lower regions of his anatomy. He had wished for Mary to be in his bedroom as a reoccurring fantasy for years, never far enough away to make the dreams cease to be. Now, the moment was here; she was in his bedroom in Crawley House. She was in _his_ bedroom where once they might have been man and wife - united in body, soul, and mind. But this was a cruel, sick joke to play on him while he was in bed like a wounded animal. He had been caught in yet another trap. He still couldn't be sure of her motives.

Matthew stared at her and could not stop himself from licking his lips. His arousal could not be denied, and he could uncomfortably feel the change in his situation. But this was wrong. The fantasy was ruined, and it was now a nightmare. It was not Mary's fault she had this effect on him; he only had himself to blame. This was exactly why he needed to make better decisions with his head and not his heart - or other parts of his anatomy that could, most certainly, _not_ be trusted.

In this moment, he knew that Mary would never regard him seriously. She would simply be kind to the invalid, he thought contritely. Besides, Matthew knew he was not a gentleman. He understood this much about his own behavior and that his morality hung by the most delicate of strings. His body was wrong, achingly wrong, and constantly betraying him. He had fought for King and Country; he could now fight greedy sensations for Mary's flesh. She was engaged! What a scoundrel he was! Still working his aching body into a sitting position, Matthew made sure there was enough bedding to cover his growing erection, just in case.

Suddenly, he felt her hands behind him, and he flinched. She was fluffing the pillows, and when she pushed him back, it was oddly comforting. Mary was right; he did feel better now that she had repositioned him. Having made it propped up in bed, he looked at her through his fevered eyes. Matthew knew he must have a fever because her face seemed to shine like a mystical Valkyrie, come to slay him. His internal mechanisms were pounding so loudly in his head he could barely concentrate on what she was saying. But he had to focus on her words.

"I'm sorry to interrupt your convalescing," she said, sitting boldly on his bed. She adjusted her dress and placed her crossed hands in her lap.

Mary's exquisite bottom was now seated next to his feet._ "Why did she have to do that!?"_ his body fiercely seemed to demand. Matthew sucked in a ragged breath and was oddly grateful when he began coughing again. He retrieved his handkerchief and held it to his mouth, hoping to be distracted, if only temporarily, from other parts of his anatomy. He was sure his elevated temperature was to blame for his rampaging libido, nothing more and nothing less. It was that simple. The last time Mary had sat next to him on a bed, he had been numb in his lower region, and he now fully understood the ramifications of his body having completely healed. Well, except for his cold, of course. And his fever; he had a fever. That explained everything.

Mary's gaze was fixed on him, and somehow he seemed to enjoy her eyes on him. _Don't lick your lips,_ he told himself. _Don't do anything. Don't move. Don't think. Don't speak. Wait. No._ He looked into her eyes. Wait, he did in fact need to speak. Mathew took a shallow breath - all that his sickened lungs would allow under the circumstances - and tried to talk to her in a dignified manor, despite his various handicaps.

"No need for apologies, Mary," he found himself saying rather awkwardly. He enjoyed saying her name. He had always loved her name, but he didn't love her. Because that would be absurd.

"I'm not very good at convalescing, so I welcome the interruption," he finished.

Mary's eyes flickered to challenge him; he knew that expression all too well. Her head and neck muscles pivoted in a slightly raised movement that he found fascinating. Matthew's gaze wondered across her face. He was drinking in her presence. The red dress she was wearing had a delicately trimmed collar of lace. He hoped she was warm enough, as the material looked awfully thin.

"Matthew." The candid way she now said his name sounded between a purr and a reprimand to him. She continued, "That is not true. Quite the contrary, in fact." Mary's voice was also warm and pleasant in his ears. Even if she was going to lecture him, he was somehow glad. Even if that made little sense to him, he didn't _have_ to make sense. Because he was sick and had a fever.

"You are very good at making amazing recoveries," she said, her voice strong with authority.

Matthew swallowed back the sentiments her statement provoked. In only a brief moment, his mind flashed through so many memories from the past year. He was in his wheelchair, the warm autumn wind blowing the stifling air between them. Then, miraculously, it was spring, and he was getting married. Just one dance with Mary in his arms was all he needed to feel alive again, to feel…

"_However much I might want too…"_

The magazine he had been holding fell from its precarious position off his lap and onto the floor. It made him recoil against his pillows, his body feeling rigid. The magazine was, after all, another layer of defense against his rising affliction that lurked beneath the covers. Mary casually leaned down and picked it up, placing it on the table next to his other reading material. She inched closer to him on the bed, adjusting her position. Matthew did what he told himself he wouldn't do; he broke another promise he had made to himself, and licked his lips.

"That is not at all what I would picture you reading," she said with a teasing smile. Matthew tried to raise his eyebrows at her but it seemed to only remind him of his headache. He was, however, relieved that, at least, she was humoring him.

"What should I be reading then?" he asked, his voice hoarse -from illness, not from anything else.

Mary then laughed boldly, "Only the classics, of course."

Matthew smiled at her assumption of his reading taste. It had been ages since they had any kind of conversation that wasn't strained or forced, that wasn't emotional and utterly exhausting. He missed the devilish intellect that she possessed.

"For instance," Mary continued, her tone serious, yet playful somehow. "This may help convince you. Shakespeare said, _'__my long sickness of health and living now begin to mend, and nothing brings me all things.'"_

Matthew smiled so wide it hurt his tightly pinched face. There was no one like Mary.

"As you like it," he said playfully back. His fevered brain seemed to dance at the folly she was placing in his path, and his loins encouraged him as well. She smiled at him, and that was all it took. He wanted to goad her, so he did.

"What about Greek drama?" Matthew asked, pulse pounding and head spinning. "Do you think I should read that?"

"Yes." Mary smiled at him indulgently. She reached up to lightly rearrange the blankets that were tucked around him. The action made him gasp but she didn't stop until she was satisfied, patting at the corners by his waist and thankfully no lower.

"I know I have very different opinions on the topic now," she added lightheartedly. "Perhaps you should also try reading the old myths again."

Matthew watched as she adjusted a pin in her hair, her fingers efficiently adjusting the loose strand. He felt hypnotized by her every movement and wanted desperately to offer his assistance. But before he could say anything, his mother had somehow appeared in the room. She addressed Mary, but not him. _No, don't speak to the invalid in the bed. Heaven forbid,_ he thought gruffly. He wanted to interrupt their conversation and declare that, _Mary fits just fine in my bedroom actually. I was wrong to panic._ _This is right, _he wanted to scream, _she fits just fine_. _Leave her in my bedroom._ But instead his mother's practical tone cut through his troubled musings.

"Mary, you must thank your father again for taking care of Matthew. I am very grateful. And I'm sorry you can't stay longer, but Matthew needs to rest." His mother was interrupting everything. It was not fair. He didn't want Mary to leave; he would miss her.

"Yes, of course," Mary relented. She smiled fondly, her eyes taking in the surroundings as if she would be later be recalling the room for a treasure map she planned to draw. Matthew watched her eyes roaming, looking over his processions. He felt almost like a voyeur watching her, she seemed was so deep in thought. _She seems to like my bedroom,_ Matthew thought to himself wickedly. He felt his affliction writhe again beneath the covers. It was certainly becoming uncomfortably warm in his bedroom.

"And I'm sure the next time we meet," his mother began again, "there will be compliments to send Mrs. Patmore for the savory beef tea she sent for Matthew."

Mary smiled fondly at his mother as she stood up from her perch on his bed. Matthew found his eyes drawn to the wrinkles on the bedspread where she had just been sitting, where her bottom had been placed. He wanted to move his feet in that direction but he didn't dare, not yet.

"Well," Mary continued speaking to his mother, "Papa thought it appropriate, for me to bring it since I was going into the village."

"Yes, it was extraordinarily thoughtful of both of you," his mother's voice paused, her eyes glancing between the two adults before she then smiled and exited the room. This gave them the unexpected gift of another moment before Mary was to depart. Matthew had another reason now to thank his mother. The list was growing.

"Well, I will leave you then, Matthew." Mary's voice sounded unexpectedly changed.

He knew it was wrong, but he felt like a schoolboy ogling his pretty teacher. It was completely inappropriate because he knew he would never be good enough for her. His clammy hands, he noticed, were gripping the sheets around him, but he didn't release the fabric. He couldn't. Instead, he concentrated on her voice. It was like honey, and honey was used in herbal remedies for cold symptoms. _I need her_. No, he corrected himself, that was the fever again. _I must let Mary go, _he thought to himself._ I must._

"After all," Mary continued, her eyes studying a framed photo of a younger version of himself posed with his father and mother, "you are in far better hands then I would be under similar circumstances. Everybody cares about you so very much."

The muddled mess that was Matthew's head jumped at her rather odd remark. What could she mean? She sounded so sad when she said it. It pained him more than he wanted to admit. His headache seemed to concede defeat to the pangs of his heart. But not, unfortunately, to the pull of his groin which throbbed deeper when he felt he would never be able to help her if she needed help. But why would she need help? Didn't she feel loved? Everybody cared for her, surely? How could they not? She was …

"I only meant," Mary said, her chocolate eyes turning to look him straight in the face, like he was the X on her treasure map. Her voice had a bit of a flutter to it, or maybe he was just reading her wrong, as he always seemed to. Matthew bit his lip, stifling a yawn. He suddenly felt extremely fatigued.

"Your mother is a nurse, and mine is not." Her playful tone relived Matthew a bit, but there was still something nagging about her words. They toyed with him. But then again Mary's words always toyed with him. He must not be so serious, especially with a fevered head that longed for nostalgia but feared reconnection. He must not trust or give in to his foolish impulses ever again. _I must let her go_, he repeated to himself. Everybody else around him could perform noble sacrifices. Why couldn't he?

"Thank you," Matthew managed to croak out. He found he wanted to thank her indefinitely somehow, just for visiting him. For giving him the fantasy, for being in his bedroom at last, even under these embarrassing circumstances. It was still worth it, because any embarrassment was worth this time to be in her company.

"Mary." He found he had to say her name aloud in his bedroom at least once more. It pulled at his groin, but he had to do it. He wanted to cry, "I miss you," but he didn't. No, instead he sneezed into his handkerchief, then yawned, sheepishly exchanging a look with her at the delay in his speech.

"Please," he stressed, trying to regain control of his composure, "_please_ make your father understand, I apologize for this morning." His hands came up to rub his temples. He was so dreadfully tired, and he could now feel the shame burning in his heart for having practically fainted in Lord Grantham's arms. What an idiot he was. His embarrassment had grown exponentially in his memory.

"I'm fairly certain he will hear nothing of the sort on the matter, Matthew," Mary responded. She was now looking out the window, probably longing to be away from him already.

"He likes playing the hero, for a change." Her voice was sweet again and as soft as a cloud. Her eyes twinkled at him playfully before she added, "but I will try, for your sake."

"For my sake," Matthew repeated with a chuckle. "Thank you," he croaked out.

When his mother appeared in the doorway this time, Mary left without another word or glance back.

Once alone, Matthew remembered that she had said something strange. Hadn't she? Something was odd about her words. Was something troubling her? But he could not grasp it. It was gone. It must have left with her. He closed his eyes and hoped that peace would follow, for thoughts about Mary were more torturous then his present illness.

"And now, my dear boy..." his mother said. Matthew opened his eyes. She was pouring medicine, her voice strict.

"Open up."

* * *

***Preview* Next chapter **_**- November – **_With the first anniversary of the Armistice approaching, Matthew wants to write a letter to every living soldier that served under his command. He will have plenty to contend with when Mary appears, and suddenly he can….not…focus. Thanks for reading!


	8. November

The next chapter of _First Steps_ finds Captain Matthew Crawley preparing for the first anniversary of the armistice treaty in November, 1919. His ambitious goal is to write a letter to every soldier that served under his command. Robert has loaned him the use of the library at Downton for the task and he is alone until Mary finds him.

I must send a shout out of boundless thanks to R. Grace the architect supporting me all these chapters.

* * *

And now the story continues…

** First Steps – November**

Those things one needs to remember when they don't want to remember have the effect of an allergic reaction following a bee sting. He knew it was not the initial sting, despite the pain inflected, that truly burns. It was the itching, the spreading rash, and the poison spreading within that makes the sting unbearable. The desire to scratch cannot be denied, yet, consciously, one knows it should be ignored so that the injury can heal.

Matthew sat in the library at Downton occupying Robert's desk, papers spread out in disarray both on the surface and beneath him on the floor. "_Forward!" _echoed in his head, making his ears ring. He felt the mud beneath his boots, the roar of gunfire and screams of fallen men usher him back to France. But he had to keep his focus. The anniversary was an opportunity to mourn and honor the dead, and he must not lose sight of that.

So, all day he had been sitting alone in the library. Carson had brought him tea and biscuits after he refused a full luncheon tray, but he barely touched any of it. It had seemed a good idea. No, it _was_ a good idea. However, it was proving to be even more daunting than he had anticipated. But, he had to do something. Experience. Sacrifice. Courage. Duty and Honor. He had used dozens of meaningless adjectives already that morning trying to make each letter unique to its recipient. But what could he say? The idea had struck him earlier in the week, and, once it had been casually expressed; he had support for it at every turn. He had delayed long enough; action now had to be swift for reconnection by the first anniversary of the armistice.

Now that the war was consigned to the pages of history - he was trying to move on at the same pace as the rest of the world around him. But, he had only a few weeks to prepare so many letters. But to write a letter to every man that had been under his command as Captain was not a lot to ask of himself, he felt reprehensibly. Blowing out a breath of disgust at himself, Matthew shook his head in exasperation. He let his arms cradle his head for a moment as he collected his mangled thoughts.

The guilt of survival, the panic of relief. The fear of learning, _"what happened to you, Wakefield?" "What became of you, Carter?" _

The humble groveling of admitting in letter after letter of writing to his men, _"William Mason saved my life."_

But, what next? The jubilee of Politian's using the armistice to string soldiers like ornaments on a national Christmas tree? He had witnessed the ceremonies in July when he was in London; he didn't need any more memories such as those. Matthew knew he would be staying at Downton, he would not, and he could not be accepting the invitation he had once again received from the Officer's club.

And there was the raw truth that some of the men he had known he did not want to write too. Matthew thought of Fitzgerald for instance. If he ever saw that man again, he would want to cross the street to get away from him, in a civilized world. The man was vicious through and through. He was a rotten cored apple of a man with apparently _no soul_. But a soldier's character defeats do not matter in war, only his actions are what count in the heat of the moment. Matthew remembered the day that William Mason had joined him in France as his batman. They were being driven to Matthew's bunker by Fitzgerald and another soldier named Sloane. However, odious he found Fitzgerald, he was one of the best marksmen in his division, and since they were in enemy territory, his skills were extremely valuable.

Out in the exposed terrain that had once no doubt been a farmer's field the wind blew fiercely. A lone house stood with its stone walls having crumbled; the roof fallen in and the debris was lying around the structure in heaps. It made for a tragic addition to the already bleak landscape. A woman in a tatty dress with cropped brown hair stood beside the rumble. When Matthew saw the matted blood in her hair, he asked Sloane to stop. They had then approached the women cautiously. Fitzgerald and Sloane with their weapons cocked. Matthew could not tell them to stand down until he was sure she was no threat to them after all. If it was her home he could understand why she wouldn't abandon the structure, even if no longer provided adequate shelter. Matthew looked at her face and saw a doppelganger of his cousin Mary, William must have seen it too for he whispered, "_Sir?_" But he didn't answer him he only nodded his confirmation that yes, he saw it too. In fact he was relieved William saw the same face before him. It was the first of many times he was eternally grateful for Robert's proposition to take William as his batman.

Fitzgerald flicked the butt of his light cigarette in her direction, lowering his gun only a degree or two. But Sloane holstered his weapon and just stared at his feet before bending to adjust a buckle on his boots. The woman's eyes were that of a trapped animal, but one he thought sadly that knows the limits of its cage. They continued to try to speak to her but they got no response, she could not be engaged in conversation, she would not answer their questions. Matthew didn't know what to do. Suddenly a boy, tall and lanky but not child, a boy old enough to enlist and become a solider came running towards them. He had a riffle over his shoulder across his back. He did not look like a soldier, more like a farm boy. But while he looked like a civilian, he was yelling in German. His arm reached across his back. Fitzgerald fired his gun without hesitation and shot him dead with a single bullet. The women screamed at the action, a raw visceral and primal noise admitted into the background all around them.

Matthew could relate to the shock of Fitzgerald's action. But before he could yell a reprimand to his solider he found his attention was redirected. William threw up beside him. And then the woman's piercing scream gave way to rushed and babbling German. She seemed to stagger towards him and for Matthew's part he would have tried to help her, but then he saw the large knife she drew from a pouch behind the fabric wrapped around her skirt. They stood suddenly to close together, he realized with a sudden fear numbing his ability to move properly. Perhaps only within a margin of a step from cutting him, she fell to the ground, her screams still echoing across the windy landscape. He had been unaware of any of these threats he thought, a woman, a boy. All of this death around him and for what? Matthew could hear the sound of a match being struck and looked over from the dead women before him to see Fitzgerald lighting another cigarette and their eyes locked. His stare was hard and his eyes cold.

"No need to thank me, _Captain_," he said with a cynical grin. His gun dangled over his arm while he breathed in the tobacco nonchalantly. Fitzgerald took another puff of his cigarette and continued. "_You_ may trust Huns but I never will."

Beside him William Mason dry heaved, and Matthew saw Sloane walk briskly back to their waiting vehicle. Matthew knew intellectually that just because she spoke German, didn't mean she didn't also speak French, plenty of people do in fact speak more than one language. But he didn't say this; he couldn't say anything in fact. Matthew just watched Fitzgerald's movements.

"Welcome to France," Fitzgerald said to William who was still bent over on his knees.

The grim memory sent chills through Matthew's rigid posture as he hunched over Robert's desk. What was he doing writing these letters? He did not want to revisit these times, they should be buried, forever in the deepest caverns of his mind, and yet he was retrieving them now, for what purpose? Matthew did not know what to do now, just as he had not known what to do then. He tried not to shudder and give in to the emotions now just as he had then. Numbness was the only option available, the only cure, the only salvation from the grim reaper of death and judgment that hung like a black cloud over his own soul. He had been contemplating whether he should include a poem into each letter he wrote. It was a very short poem that he had first heard in London during the celebrations. Matthew felt such a kinship with the words he had memorized it.

_They ask me where I've been,  
And what I've done and seen.  
But what can I reply  
Who know it wasn't I,  
But someone just like me,  
Who went across the sea  
And with my head and hands  
Killed men in foreign lands...  
Though I must bear the blame,  
Because he bore my name.*_

But was this appropriate in the midst of celebration? Besides what could he say to these men, some of which seemed to not mind taking the life of another man? Who didn't mind entering the life of an innocent woman? Would reaching out to Sloane give him absolution? Would it give Fitzgerald meaning? No, it was best to let the barbaric actions of France, stay in France. And yet he was hell bound to resurrect them by writing these letters wasn't he? He could now pick and choice moments and judge his soldiers. And what right did he have to do that? To play God and say Fitzgerald, the job you were given to do to protect us as sniper brought out the very worst in your humanity, but I forgive you for being a barbarian?

Matthew blew out a hard breathe at the notion as he looked at the empty page of Fitzgerald's letter. Perhaps he should just send an empty page. He set the paper aside and simply held the fountain pen for a moment. One of the great aspects of a fountain pen is that it needs little pressure to write. Matthew felt more than enough pressure at the moment. The pen meant a great deal to him. It had been a gift from his father and was inscribed _Matthew _and then in Latin: ___Percipio Percepi Perceptum__. _His father had presented it to him the morning he left for his law studies. He had hugged his father overjoyed with the present. And when the embrace was finally broken he could still feel the gentle way his father's cupped fingers touched his face affectionately. It was the last time he saw his father before his sudden death. Gingerly Matthew placed the pen back on the table. He stared at the Latin inscription which translated as: to gain, learn, perceive, reached for his cup of tea but did not take a sip when he realized how cold the beverage had he could think was how much he didn't want to be here in his current place. Where did he want to be? Well, Matthew thought in exhaustion, I don't know.

Matthew was startled from his hunched position in the chair. He saw there was ink on his fingers and it had spread across his hand as he had clenched his fits together lost in thought. He then looked at the hand on his shoulder as it was gracefully removed.

"I'm sorry to startle you, I called your name first, but you didn't respond," Mary said, her brown eyes looking patiently down at him.

His tongue felt as inarticulate as his pen. He couldn't find anything to say, so he just sat like a slow child, embarrassed by his loss for words in her overshadowing presence.

"Would you like some help?" Mary offered setting down a book she had been holding on a near-by table. It was Frankenstein, he couldn't help but notice. His eyes started at the book as he had his own history with that novel. Mary brought about a fresh wave of mixed emotions.

"I'm really rather bored," she continued her tone rather brisk but still warm to his ears. "I came in here to find something to occupy myself. It is incredibly dreary outside, and with Edith going on and going on, it's also incredibly dreary inside!"

"No," Matthew said rather hastily. "You can't help me." Why didn't she seem to understand he didn't want her around him? She was relentlessly comforting to his spirit, a salve to his manic apprehension swirling inside him. He did not deserve it. Matthew watched her though as she seemed to be surveying the mess but not wanting to be nosy, since it was probably obvious to her how jittery he was. Matthew had no illusions about Mary being unable to read him, no it was the other way around that caused their downfall, he could not read her. And after all he could hardly kick her out of her own father's library. So, he was bound to be stuck with her. She looked ready for a fight, not wishing to give up quite yet. He was on her territory even if it was his future inheritance.

"I could lick the stamps for you," Mary offered calmly, her smile underscored but still illuminating her face.

"We don't have to talk," and she pantomimed locking her lips and throwing away the key.

She then pulled a chair next to the desk and sat awaiting her task.

"You really don't have to," Matthew responded, though he understood now, from the determined look on her face, that she would be staying. "I'm not good company," he said honestly.

But Mary caused a sudden stillness in his head, and evaporation of his other thoughts and feelings. It was rather marvelous to feel the vacuum of his thoughts, his horrid memories and his distance nightmares be calmed just by her near presence. _How did she do that_? His reverie was broken by her talking. He felt a small smile creep gradually across his face. How quickly she had broken he own promise not to speak to him, it had only been thirty seconds or so.

"Nonsense," Mary said, "I'm glad for the distraction. Now, carry on and pretend I'm not even here," she said reaching for the first stack of envelopes she saw, each one needing a stamp. Matthew turned his eyes back to the latest letter and picked up his pen again. He stared at his ink covered fingers idly for a moment before trying to return his concentration to his task.

"_Dear Rupert,"_ was all he had written said so far.

The sound of Mary's wet lips making contact with his stamps forced his eyes to return to her. Her oval mouth was geometrically changing shape as her tongue darted out, providing just the right amount of saliva for the tiny little square stamp. He watched her, transfixed, for a moment before he realized how improper it was for him to stare at anyone in such a state, let alone his cousin Mary. After all studying Mary's lips, Matthew knew he was writing his own Doomsday Book. He remembered those lips all too well, like a penny dreadful the memories never left him. But they were less traumatic than his memories of France so he let himself indulge. Matthew bit his lip against his teeth when the familiar feelings of desire caught him once again. She was only being polite and offering him silent companionship (for the most part) and this was how he thought of her, objectifying her? Mary was spoken for, she was engaged, and he must keep his promise to Lavina's memory. _Stop being such a scoundrel_ he berated himself.

So, he made a hasty mental retreat into anatomy. Desperately, he tried to recall anything he could remember from his father's text books. His father had always been more than happy to share his love for all things medical. The mouth, the jaw, the lips were only parts of the anatomy after all. Suddenly a memory tripped in his mind's eye and Matthew recalled his father's demonstration of nerve endings, lips being the example he had used.

_"Erogenous Zone." It's Greek, my boy, from Greek - eros, love - and English -genous "producing," from Greek -γενής -genes - "born". _

His father then winked at him and shut the thick medical textbook with a resounding thud. Matthew remembered just staring at his father in confusion and slight irritation.

_"Okay,"_ his father said, chuckling fondly at him._ "For further clarification, I'll demonstrate."_

Matthew watched as his father called for his mother, who strolled into the room with her usual pep. Then his father puckered his lips and made a noisy smacking sound as he kissed his mother.

_"Nerve endings, Matthew. See?"_ His parents laughed and embraced smiling at him affectionately.

Matthew rolled his eyes back in his head in an agitated manor and sighed. Memories were not useful at the moment. He would need another tactic if he was to be trapped here while Mary was licking stamps. Her lips, he couldn't help but notice, were terra cotta red. They were naturally that fine a color. The shade of a new piece of pottery freshly sculptured and retrieved from the kiln. They were so beautiful, one, no two of a kind; top and bottom lips united in absolute perfection. Matthew bit the inside of his own lip. How many shades of red could he think of? Rose, ruby, scarlet, crimson, cardinal, maroon, and rust. But, this was getting him nowhere. _Terra Cotta!_ His mind screamed at him. Her lips aren't any shade but terra cotta.

_No more ogling Mary!_

He had to focus, no more distractions. But just then a line of poetry fluttered into Matthew's brain.

_Red lips are not so red_

_As the stained stones kissed by the English dead.*_

Matthew glanced back up at Mary, then quickly averted his eyes and stared out past her, his vision as cloudy as the weather outside. The perfect storm brewing. He tried to conceal the shiver that went through him shooting like a lightning bolt by rolling his shoulders and stretching slightly. It would be more comfortable to lean back in his chair but he wouldn't allow him until his back ached. Matthew forced his eyes back to his letter again. He gripped his fountain pen as if it was a lifesaver. Mary's voice again broke his trance. Her lips had been moving but he hadn't heard a word she spoke.

"I said," she grinned, "if you are caught in a stare it means your mind needs a break."

Matthew opened his mouth to respond.

"Quite or "Indeed" he might have said. But he didn't. Instead, he simply grinned sheepishly at her. Her mouth was a work of art and his memory taunted him. Terra Cotta lips entangled with his own. The taste of her breath. The tingling of her tongue crashing into his own mouth, exploring and breaking down barriers…the unquenchable thirst for…

He could no longer endure if his mind would not cooperate. Jumping to his feet, Mathew hastily arranged the papers on the floor before gathering the envelopes into neat piles. Mary had turned her head to look out the window. The angle of her neck as she licked framed her in an even more alluring portrait than her side profile had earlier.

"I'm afraid I'm late," Matthew said looking at his watch. "I was to meet Mother at," he looked at his watch again, "umm... at 4:00."

"Thank you for your kind ...help," Matthew said, stuffing all of his papers, his precious pen, and both the licked and un-licked stamped envelopes he could reach into his attaché case. Mary gathered the last of the envelopes and stamps she had taken charge of and handed them to him without a wrinkle of worry expressed on her beguiling face.

"You're welcome, of course," she said matter-of-factly and then smiled encouragingly at him.

"It was my pleasure," she said, licking her lips one last time.

Matthew was immensely grateful that she was not questioning anything about his departure, nor was she feigning hurt at his rejection of her company.

"Well, yes. Umm... Thank you again, and please excuse me," he said as he rushed out the library door.

Thunder crackled above him as Matthew stepped outside. Hopefully he would make it back to Crawley house before he was caught in the rain. He closed his eyes for a second as he tried to catch his breath. Yes, a storm was brewing indeed.

* * *

Authors note: The first poem referenced is "Back" by Wilfred Gibson from Matthew's memories in the July chapter of this story. The second poem referenced inspired by Mary's lips is "Greater Love" by Wilfred Owen.

*Preview* The next chapter of _First Steps December:_

Matthew will be spending a pre-Christmas luncheon with his mother and Downton Family, before Aunt Rosamund, and Sir Richard have arrived. Much to the chagrin of Edith who is sitting between them Matthew and Mary are having a lot of fun whispering Shakespearean quotes to each other. This is the last official chapter but there will be an additional epilogue for January. Thanks for reading.

I'd love to know what you think of this chapter as the story continues and approaches season two CS territory.


	9. December

The next chapter of _First Steps _is some old fashioned Mary and Matthew verbal sparing/flirting. Wait? Matthew's not flirting, is he?

As this story would never have come into its own without the tireless help of my friend R. Grace she deserves a round of applause for everything she has done to support this series. *applause* Now on with the show!

* * *

**First Steps - December **

Matthew stood in the grand entranceway at Downton observing the Christmas tree. It was massive and very beautiful. He thought he would have to gaze at each of its needles individually to properly do it justice. The baubles were almost a distraction to him. The small Christmas tree at Crawley House had much to feel inferior about in comparison to the grandiose of this tree. However, he wouldn't trade. He loved the tree at Crawley House because it held baubles his parents had collected, one for every year of their marriage.

Christmas produced odd feelings for Matthew. On the one side, there was the joy of the holiday traditions, but, on the other side, there was always the lingering memory of his father's death. Although his sudden death had occurred several days before the holiday, the taint had spread to eclipse the entire season. He couldn't help but feel the melancholy even now, so many years later.

But that didn't mean he didn't appreciate the heavenly smell of the fresh fir tree. It didn't mean he wasn't grateful for the mirth of the season. Matthew felt his self-imposed hibernation was lifting, as though it was spring rather than winter. Even his mother had commented on his more cordial attitude, and he realized he had been obviously dreary for far too long. So he had vowed to himself to try and be jollier this season. Especially now that he had a few moments to himself while the rest of the family was occupied gathering themselves together for luncheon. It was December 23rd and tomorrow the family would extend and open its doors to include Robert's sister and Mary's fiancée.

Matthew could hear the distance voices of his family but kept his position by the tree, fixing his gaze. Truth be told, he was feeling slightly silly about the small, impulsive purchase in his breast pocket. He had picked it up earlier that morning while posting a late Christmas letter to an old acquaintance in Manchester. When he first saw the postcard it had seemed an appropriate gesture, but now he was having second thoughts. It wasn't a real present after all, just a small piece of painted paper. It served no actual purpose, except that it had done a two fold act on him. First, it had made him laugh, and then it made him think of _her_. The paper seemed to burn in his jacket; it seemed to make the fabric itch at his skin. He longed to see the look on her face when she viewed it, to find if the silly thing would make her laugh too.

But, it was bordering on ridiculous to pawn such trifles off on his Cousin Mary right before Christmas. There would be a time for actual presents on the day itself. Perhaps it would be best to either forget the holiday card or just casually stick it in the book he planned to give her. He still had to decide which book to give her too; he had so many ideas and they all seemed valid choices.

"Hello, Matthew," Edith said, breaking his reverie. He nodded and smiled. "It gets bigger every year," she observed as they both returned their eyes to the tree.

Matthew turned his gaze suddenly, as though he was able to seemingly sense her presence. Mary was approaching.

"It is hard to imagine that this tree looked perfectly natural outside, not at all out of place like it does here," Mary said.

"Edith dear, come here for a moment please." The stern voice of her grandmother Violet was heard as she entered the hall.

"Well," Mary said, her voice serious but her soft expression betraying the joke, "I hope you enjoy our last reasonably normal luncheon. After this, ham of bear from Finland, snails from France, caviar from Russia is all we will be having for the next two weeks, at least."

"Then I shall have to just grin and _bear_ it I suppose," Matthew said in response, keeping his tone serious - or as close to serious as he could manage.

He took his eyes off the tree to steal a quick glance at Mary.

"Anything else would betray false feelings about the joys of the season that are upon us," she replied, her head angling with a little flare of exaggerated snobbery.

As their eyes met, she broke first, letting a small giggle erupt, her left hand coming up quickly to cover her smile. Matthew soon found himself laughing too.

"Well," she said, "I suppose I was correct then in assuming how much you will need this little offering to get you through this season." Suddenly, she revealed a peppermint candy stick.

"It's nothing really just a. . ." her voice trailed off as she was not allowed to finish. Matthew had reached into his pocket to give her the postcard which had derailed her finishing the thought that explained her small gift.

"I also got you a little nothing," he joked in response.

They laughed together for a moment. How long had it been since he had laughed with Mary? Matthew couldn't remember, yet the feeling seemed as familiar as riding his bicycle - a sensation once mastered that could never be forgotten. He had not attempted this skill since his injury, but he trusted the ability still remained. In a strange way, Matthew felt his friendship with Mary was similar.

Mary stared at the postcard with the first genuine amusement she'd felt in ages. It depicted two kittens, one orange and one black, eyeing each other with a delighted conspirators grin. The kittens were perched on a table, and next to them sat a pitcher of spilt milk, a teapot, a loaf of bread, and a knife covered in butter. Behind the kittens was a warm-looking fire place decorated with mistletoe and holly. The caption said simply: _A Christmas Wish from me to you - Fond and True. _Mary stared at the postcard, but before anything further could be said, they were promptly ushered in to the aforementioned luncheon. Matthew did notice, though, that Mary had clutched the postcard to her chest for a moment before handing it delicately to Carson. He wondered if that meant she was keeping it. For his part, Matthew carefully tucked his candy inside his breast pocket, content to know it would be safe and near his heart. Peppermint was his favorite flavor after all, and Mary had remembered this detail.

Matthew sat between Edith and Mary at the luncheon. He was often pulled into conversation, at first by Robert more often than either of his female cousins. However, when a slight disagreement began between Cora and Violet about when the first year the family had started the tradition of playing "the game" he was happy to turn his attention back to simply eating his watercress soup. Listening to them each justifying why they believed it was a certain year, he caught his mother's eye across the table and saw the sparkle of amusement in it. She winked at him fondly. Matthew had a warm feeling this holiday would be at least a lighter occasion than it had for years. He took a sip of his wine and relished the relief that seemed to fill him at the thought of such contentment. His head felt clearer than it had for ages, his thoughts simple and plain with no underlying currents or mischievous feelings plaguing him.

"Have you played 'the game' before?" Edith asked him, breaking his reverie.

"I've played charades many times," Matthew volunteered.

"But," Mary interrupted them both, "this is not charades. It's an insult to our tradition to confuse it with anything else." She said the last part under her breath in a mocking tone. Matthew was amused by the way she seemed to be in such a good mood and willing to poke fun at her family's traditions. He wondered if Carlisle's arrival tomorrow was casting this happy glow on Mary's actions. Matthew took another sip of his wine.

Mistaking Mary's jab, Edith, fond as she was of joshing her sister ,replied, "Mary could have a whole argument in Charade's clues. I believe her favorite category last year was 'Shakespearean insults'."

"That sounds like a challenge dear sister, and I am not one to back down from a gauntlet like that," Mary responded, wiping her mouth daintily with her napkin before placing it gracefully back in her lap. She picked up her wine glass and raised it in Edith's direction whispering,

_"Thou hast no more brain than I have in mine elbows."_

Matthew smiled and bit his lip to keep from laughing out loud and drawing unnecessary attention to their fun.

Just as Edith was about to speak, Matthew eclipsed her. He couldn't help himself. The twinkle in Mary's eyes was like a beacon, and he had to chase it.

_"I'll tickle your catastrophe!"_

Mary's eyes perked up with surprise as she stared at Matthew. He raised his eyebrows at her playfully, challenging her back. She tipped her wine glass looking, first at Matthew, then at her sister.

_"My cousin's a fool, and thou art another."_

Matthew kept his eyes on Mary and shot back another quotation. Having spent so many recent evenings in the exclusive company of books was now proving most useful.

_"Take you me for a sponge?" _

Mary's response was quicker even then he had imagined possible. She was indeed quite adept at this game. Matthew felt his pulse quicken as they had still not broken eye contact. Neither of them had even blinked.

_"You juggler! You canker-blossom!"_

"Yes, yes; you are both very clever," Edith tried to redirect the conversation in exasperation, but they ignored her. Matthew smiled and stared at Mary, daring her on. He could safely say he felt better than he had in ages. Matthew felt the honest symbolism of his next quotation's truth, and it almost made him shiver.

_"You are strangely troublesome."_

Mary smirked rebelliously at that but did not break eye contract, continuing to lock eyes with her opponent. Matthew blinked first, and she then raised her eyebrows at him as if to say, _Ha! I'm going to win!_ He bit his tongue slightly but held her gaze, transfixed by their verbal sparing. He continued to stare at her and twitched his nose at her playfully, hoping to make her laugh so that she would be distracted. It didn't work, however. Mary's voice was calm and confident.

_"I would my horse had the speed of your tongue." _

Before Matthew could respond with his next whispered Shakespearean insult, he realized the person saying his name was not in fact Mary, but his mother who was speaking with Robert.

"Matthew?"

He broke eye contact with Mary to see the slightly bemused look on his mother's face. She nodded to her left where Robert was seated, and Matthew redirected his attention.

"Will you have to go up to London, my boy? Isobel was just telling me that Mr. Swire is ill again."

The moment with Mary was all but gone. Matthew grew somber thinking about Mr. Swire. Another man named Reginald who would die in December. He felt the old pain of his father's death rekindle. At least he could sit with Mr. Swire; at least he could say goodbye. Matthew took a deep breath before responding to try and reframe his mind.

"Yes, I may have to. I will know more after I telephone later today," Matthew responded. He appreciated the effort Robert was making. It was frustrating being without resources to aid those in distress after all, his mother's reaction to the change in his own disposition had shown him that much recently.

"Do keep me informed, Matthew. I should like to know either way what your plans are," Robert concluded with an affectionate glance before Cora once again needed a referee from her mother-in-law and his attention was again diverted. Matthew turned his head when Mary spoke again.

"I'm sorry to hear about Mr. Swire," she said after a moment. "But that doesn't mean I'm sorry you lost our little competition."

Something within Matthew greedily absorbed these tranquil moments, appreciating all of these people, his family, at this luncheon. He was especially grateful for Mary's camaraderie, but he was far from feeling ready to concede defeat to her. It felt so natural to sit next to her and talk with her, to be challenged by her once again. To just be her friend would be more than enough. Matthew whispered from behind his wine glass with a lighthearted smirk. It would do no harm now to continue their game, after all. She shouldn't think he would give up so easily.

_"More of your conversation would infect my brain."_

The ladies then started to leave the luncheon and adjourn for pastries and tea in the drawing room. Matthew felt victory was close at hand. Mary stood up but retained her napkin in her hand, turning around to then drop it back on her chair. She whispered her final retort in a low purr as if she was one of the kittens from his postcard. As she bent over, her words practically fell into his ears, her breath lingering there slightly above him, warm and fragrant.

_"Out of my sight! Thou dost infect my eye."_

Matthew felt the tickle of her breath on his face and shivered. As he watched her leave, her smooth, graceful steps a victory march. He knew she had won their little impromptu competition. Matthew took in her retreating form and appreciated the way her green gown seemed to light her up like the beautiful Christmas tree in the great hall. She was enchanting and still surprised him after all this time. Today Mary had even amazed him.

"Matthew?"

He turned his head, tearing his eyes from Mary's retreating figure to see Robert staring quizzically at him. A very reverent look graced the older man's face as he offered the cigar box with a smile, which Matthew was glad to return.

* * *

Authors Note: This is the last official chapter of First Steps - but there will be an epilogue chapter for January post the CS. Thanks for reading and I hope you've enjoyed Matthew's journey!


	10. January

Matthew's transformation is all but complete. This is the final glimpse into his journey since April 1919 and his first true step towards his future with Mary. Welcome to January 1920. Many thanks to R. Grace, who convinced me to tack on this epilogue to the _First Steps_ series.

"_Go to your bosom: Knock there, and ask your heart what it doth know." __- Shakespeare _

* * *

"I'm not implying there is anything wrong with you, darling. I'm only saying you've been out in the cold late at night, and you've been fighting," Isobel said with a wink before forcing the notion on her son once again. "Shoo now, go take a hot bath!"

So a short while later, Matthew found himself reclined in the tub, the steam rising around him. While his body gave in to the warm water and he felt himself dutifully relaxing, his mind had not chosen to participate and was still moving at full force. How could he be expected to be calm when his whole life was on the brink of change? When a second chance might occur sometime in the future? When new possibilities were suddenly a reality?

Matthew remembered the way his professors at Oxford had tapped on the chalkboard, starting with one conclusion and moving on to the next, step by step. It was a perfect analogy for how his mind was cycling through recent events. Events that had occurred only a few hours ago. Events that changed everything. Mary had broken with Sir Richard. The mere notion caused his lower body to react under the water. He could feel himself harden just at the thought of Mary.

_MARY,_ his mind seemed to scream. Matthew closed his eyes and tried not to think intimate thoughts. But avoiding intimate thoughts when it came to Mary was almost impossible. She had always seemed to touch him, body and soul, and he had always bathed, so to speak, in her presence. Suddenly, Matthew found himself wishing she was there, in Crawley House, in his… no, he must not take it that far. Mary was free; that was the important thing. She has won her victory; she could now make her own choices.

Matthew pulled the plunger on the tub and stepped out. The water swirling down the drain seemed to mock him. He kept seeing his dilemma and new circumstances everywhere he looked. But he must not be impulsive like before. He must control himself. The draining water seemed an analogy of wasted years, all the time he could have been with Mary so long ago. All the events, circumstances, and people that had come between them. So many lives woven together, then torn apart. But Richard would be a part of them no longer. And with this, Matthew thought, perhaps Lavinia should be released as well. Maybe it was time.

He pulled his dressing gown on and walked barefoot into his bedroom to change into his pajamas. As he pulled the trousers over his groin, he thought of Lavinia. He tried to picture her as he had once, when his love for her had caused him to propose. He thought of her kind eyes and sweet, innocent smile. But as he touched himself and thought of her, Matthew felt no intimacy for her, not in that way. His experiment was complete. He sighed and continued to dress. He knew that only Mary produced such deep, penetrating feelings in him that shook him even now. Even when they were miles apart, just the thought of her caused him physical arousal. He had punished himself for so long, a little further discomfort was no great hardship.

Once he was dressed, he decided to head back downstairs. It was late, but he knew he would never be able to sleep after such an eventful night - the last night Sir Richard would be spending at Downton Abbey. Matthew had to smile at that. Although he was not particularly pleased with himself for resorting to violence like a common criminal, he was not unhappy he had tangled with the man. Matthew looked down at his hand which bore a small bruise from the impact of landing on Sir Richard's jaw. His smile grew wider. Yes, he had enjoyed that. He couldn't help remembering the way cousin Violet had not accepted his apology about the vase.

"_I've hated it for half a century."_

Her words in his head reminded him of when she had pushed into his bedroom to speak to him. Crawley women were always pushing in on him, he thought fondly. Cousin Violet had told him marriage was a long business. The vase was a symbol of time; he couldn't help but make the connection. A part of him wished this bruise would stay with him forever, instead of the one on his spine. But he was done with quid pro quo imaginary bargains; it was silly to waste his time on such notions. He would think no more of things outside of his control and focus on what he could have, instead, in the future.

When the rest of the family had entered the fray and patted him on the back, he had been most uncomfortable. He couldn't help feeling, once again, as if he was their prized ornament who acted out to get their attention. And his motivations had hardly been pure; he hadn't fought for Mary after all. He had fought because the man's words made his actions so obvious, made him feel oblique to the light of the two women he loved the most, that he had been oblivious to either of them suffering. That was why he had punched the scoundrel. Well, that was why he justified punching the man, because he'd wanted to do it before Sir Richard had even spoken.

So, when Robert had proposed a toast to him at the dinner table, a flutter of his anxiety had arisen anew. Is this what it would be like from now on? He would play the role of false hero? But his Mother had jumped in, as was her habit, and amended the toast to include Mary. So, in the euphoria of the moment, they had all raised their glasses and toasted "to Matthew and Mary." Cousin Violet's eyes had perked up at the rather bold wording as she looked across the table at him. The wine had been flowing liberally for some time by then, so Matthew supposed nobody really thought too much about the slip of the tongue, so to speak. But then it had occurred to him that, no doubt, Cousin Violet would be plotting with his mother next. Then Matthew stopped in mid-step halfway down the staircase. Maybe she had been plotting with her already? Violet had approached him; why not his mother? Matthew sighed at that conclusion and chuckled. Anything was possible, after all.

As Matthew had expected, when he reached the bottom of the staircase and poked his head into the sitting room, his Mother was still up. She had changed too and was in her nighttime attire. He entered the sitting room where she was reading and joined her on the settee. She set her book down on the side table and patted his knee fondly.

"Matthew," she began her tone sounding playful, "when I said you should fight for Mary, I did not mean for you to take me quite so literally, though it does please me that you listen to my advice."

He had to laugh at that. He had not laughed or smiled so much in ages, he was sorely out of practice. It was all a jest indeed. He felt he had to explain himself before she let him have it.

"Yes, Mother, I'm afraid I did act rather rashly. I know I shouldn't have gotten involved, to bring violence into such a great house."

Isobel looked at her boy, taking in everything he said, and studied him. She had meant to pretend to be affronted. She wasn't serious, and yet still he seemed to fix the blame on himself. It was time to have another chat with her son.

"Dear, you are always so hard on yourself for following your impulses. Well, what does your heart tell you now? I think you can trust what you are feeling. No need to throw around anymore excuses."

Matthew looked at his mother. She had always been so calm and wise - a pillar of strength for him. He was enormously grateful for her advice, for the kick in the right direction. For so many months, he had tried to hide his thoughts and emotions from her, and it had cost him next to everything he had. He couldn't stand it anymore; he needed to tell her everything that was now on his mind.

"I do have a plan," Matthew spoke, his voice quiet. He reached into his dressing gown pocket and removed a small velvet bag. He held it out for her to take. Isobel took the offered bag and the first thing her eyes noticed was the monogram on the front. Two sets of initials, _MC_ and _MC_, with a mobius strip, the symbol for infinity. Isobel looked at her boy and found she wasn't the only one with watering eyes. She pulled out a small box and opened it to find a simple ring inside. Isobel held it up to the light delicately. It was a gold band curved at the front into the shape of a mobius, a continuous closed surface with only one side, a loop that has no boundaries. The gold mobius shape of the ring was impeccably beautiful. Isobel appreciated how the ring had no rocks or stones in it to sparkle. The ring's beauty was in the fine gold craftsmanship and the sentiment behind the contentiously symbol.

She watched her darling son's eyes staring at the ring she held. Sometimes when she looked at him, she could only see the little boy he had once been, but not in this moment. No, now when she looked at him, she could see only the fine man he had become.

Isobel waited patiently for Matthew to speak first. She didn't want her thoughts to interrupt his, knowing how hard this must be for him. And she was a little regretful of herself as well. She had not always supported his choices; she had been angry at Mary for the way she perceived she had slighted her beloved only child. Isobel only hoped she could now make appends to bring them together so her boy could be happy and whole again. He was so much like his father. _Dear Reginald_, she thought, _you would be so proud of our boy_.

"I bought it in 1914," Matthew said quietly, his voice finally having found its stride.

His hands were unable to keep from reaching for the ring, and Isobel handed it over gently, placing it in his palm.

"I remember I was wandering around Sloane Square in London on my own, and I saw this beautiful ring in the window of a small jeweler's shop. Sybil's ball was later that night. I bought the ring on impulse, Mother."

"It is very beautiful," Isobel said fondly. "And very unique. You chose well."

"But I never had the courage to give it to her," he said, his voice choked up.

"Perhaps if I had…" he didn't finish the thought. But Isobel knew it wasn't necessary. She understood enough now about what had happened then.

Although the memory stung, he wondered if it wasn't time to resurrect the ring and try again.

"It still reminds me of her." He struggled to keep his composure. Tearing his eyes from the ring, and ventured a glance at his mother, who was smiling at him. Matthew released a breath he didn't even know he had been holding.

"But, is it good enough for her? It's so simple. I would hate to have her think she's not worth even one beautiful stone. For her to think I can't afford…"

"_Matthew_," Isobel interrupted, her voice rich with affection. _That's quite enough of that_, she wanted to say. But she kept her tone steady instead; she wouldn't allow him to use his regrets as a shield from the future anymore.

"Does this ring symbolize everything you want with Mary? If so, give it to her, my boy. I think you can trust yourself to know when the time is right."

Matthew looked at the ring again; it did mean everything he wanted with and for Mary. Infinity. Yes, he wanted Mary for that long. His earlier unease about the ring seemed to disappear. They were not the people they were in 1914, yet this ring still held true to his feelings now as it did then. Matthew had never thought of offering this ring to Lavinia. He carefully placed it back in the box and tucked it back in the velvet pouch, then dropped it into his dressing gown pocket.

"So, you've made a decision?" Isobel asked, patting his knee affectionately again.

"Yes, I believe I have," Matthew answered, putting his hand over hers.

"Then you are doing the right thing, for you, and for Mary." Isobel looked at her son, the grown man sitting next to her, her heart bursting at the sight of him.

"I'm so very proud of you," she said, her strong voice wavering only in small increments. "And I hope you know that your father would be very proud too, very proud indeed."

Matthew smiled, and, with his free hand, retrieved a handkerchief from his dressing gown pocket to offer her. He had to practically shake it at her before she stubbornly accepted it.

He felt his own eyes start to water as they sat together. "I do know that," he said. "Thank you, mother." His voice stronger and more confident.

And Matthew finally felt relaxed.

* * *

Authors Note: Yeah! Matthew and Mary live happily ever after - to infinity and beyond! A picture of what the ring looks like is available on my tumblr account – wdedalus – check it out!


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